


Beauty Ascending

by Aziethe



Series: Love in the Age of Dragons [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Death, Drama, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/F, Fantasy, Horror, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Psychic Violence, Romance, Talking Darkspawn, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-19
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 49
Words: 186,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aziethe/pseuds/Aziethe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after the Blight, the dire consequences of Morrigan's ritual unfold, the Architect atones for past mistakes and Alistair struggles to govern both the Chantry and his country. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/83725">A Curious Thing</a>, AU from the end of DA:O onwards. Main pairing is Morrigan/f!Surana, other major characters are Alistair, Anders and the Old God Baby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> With many thanks to juri and oneplusme for the beta. Dedicated to my wife, sorry it's still not the fluff you were looking for :-p
> 
> **Warnings: **References to rape, character death, canon-typical violence. Individual chapters will have warnings if they refer to rape. Chapter 25 has dub-con and chapter 36 has a non-sexual scene analogous to non-con. The recap below has a reference to rape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap - A Curious Thing
> 
> Sylvanna: Oh Morrigan, you're so dark and powerful and sexy! Look, I killed your mother! Don't you like me now?
> 
> Morrigan: 'Like' is a particularly strong word.
> 
> Sylvanna: How about some meaningless sex?
> 
> Morrigan: I suppose I could allow myself to be convinced.
> 
> *Wynne disapproves -20*  
> *Alistair disapproves -15*  
> *Leliana disapproves -5*  
> *Zevran approves +2*
> 
> [Some time later]
> 
> Sylvanna: Can I use the 'l' word now?
> 
> Morrigan: Only if you wish for our liaison to end.
> 
> Sylvanna: But I really lo-
> 
> Morrigan: *dumps her*
> 
> [Plot happens]
> 
> Morrigan: Do not be alarmed. It is only I.
> 
> Sylvanna: OMG PLEASE take me back. I miss you so much!
> 
> Morrigan: I'm not here for you.
> 
> Sylvanna: You want to rape Alistair to get an Old God baby? Are you for real?
> 
> Morrigan: 'Rape' is a harsh word...
> 
> Sylvanna: OMG NO! Die!
> 
> [Later]
> 
> Alistair: Wow, I had a really disturbing dream.
> 
> Sylvanna: Let me guess. Morrigan was there. And she was naked. And now you're naked. Maker, shield my eyes...
> 
> Alistair: I feel used.
> 
> Sylvanna: Oh Alistair, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.
> 
> [Weeks pass]
> 
> Zevran: Chasing after Morrigan really hasn't been your greatest idea yet.
> 
> Sylvanna: Yes, because all of my other ideas were so much better. Look, just go to Antiva, okay? I promise you'll have a cameo in the sequel.
> 
> Zevran: *sighs* As you wish.
> 
> [Months pass]
> 
> Sylvanna: These recurring dreams aren't creepy at all!
> 
> Sylvanna: Oh noes! I lost my dog! Wow, I suck at being a warden.
> 
> Sylvanna: Ooh! A cute house on the hill! Killing Morrigan and her baby is totally going to be a cinch, for some reason.
> 
> Morrigan: I warned you not to follow me, did I not?
> 
> Sylvanna: When do I actually listen to anything you say?
> 
> Morrigan: *sniffs* 'Tis true enough.
> 
> Old God Baby: *is creepy*
> 
> Sylvanna: Aww. She's so cute! I was expecting a darkspawn. Or a lizard.
> 
> Morrigan: Such scintillating intelligence! It makes me question what I ever saw in you. Here, hold the child.
> 
> Sylvanna: But-
> 
> Morrigan: Just do it.
> 
> Old God Baby: *does a godly thing*
> 
> Sylvanna: I think I love this baby. OMG! I think I love you. Can I live here now?
> 
> Morrigan: Caring for an infant is incredibly distasteful. Oh, why not.
> 
> Sylvanna: Hurray.
> 
> Old God Baby: *sleepily smiles with satisfaction*

**Hope**

The art of suggestion requires a delicate touch.

Morrigan knows this all too well. She knows the line between submission and resistance is infinitely narrow, with its boundaries ever changing. There are ways to brutalise the mind, of course, techniques used in the heat of battle that require only blood and the strength of a mage's will.

But even now, past the recriminations and unspoken regrets, she does not wish for her lover to suffer needlessly. And so she eases her gently into the realm of possibilities, slowly and tenderly, with all the care in the world.

The child will break her, in the end, but for once, Morrigan will not be held responsible.

.

.

.

**Will**

It is dark when Sylvanna awakes in their bed (their bed – the possessive feels strange, even spoken silently in her mind). The other side of it is cold, a slight indent where a body may have once lain. She wraps herself up in a robe, traversing the short distance down the stairs and into the main room.

The fire has long since died down, its embers still glowing red in the cooling hearth. She shivers, drawing her robes closer around herself, but not from the cold.

The child is awake, her eyes watching Sylvanna with a gaze that is openly appraising. Sylvanna bends down, sitting next to the cradle with her knees folded up beneath her.

"Release me," she begs, her voice cracking as she speaks. At her plea, there is only silence, and the unbroken gaze of the child staring back at her. She falters in the wake of that endless void, its depths hiding shadows that she cannot even begin to fathom. "What more do you want from me?"

In the unfolding darkness of the morning, Sylvanna gives in to despair.

.

.

.

**Purpose**

That the child hungers comes as no surprise.

Such a tiny body to house such unimaginable power. How frustrating it must be, how ignoble to be forced into this frail vessel of flesh and be bound by all its constraints.

All children need sustenance to grow, and this child is no exception.

It is only a game, at first, a trick to amuse a bored and petulant baby. Sylvanna stands over the cradle, conjuring a string of lights to distract and entertain. The child claps her hands, laughing with delight, and then stretches up a chubby fist to pluck out the heart of each star shining in its miniature firmament. The gesture leaves Sylvanna cold, the spell vanishing as the child sucks the mana out of the air like a vacuum.

When the child turns her voracious eyes upon her, she begins to back away.

There is the merest hint of pressure, the feeling of movement as the child draws the rest of the magic from her body in one long, drawn-out breath. The mana leaves Sylvanna in a stream of light, pouring out from her skin and vanishing into nothing. When the last of it departs, she stumbles to the floor like a marionette whose strings have just been cut.

As she gasps for breath, barely able to move, Sylvanna wonders, not for the first time, how much more will be demanded of her.

.

.

.

**Competence**

When Sylvanna first hears it, she assumes she is mistaken.

"Mama," the child enunciates clearly, walking carefully towards her with tightly controlled movements. Sylvanna watches her closely, but the child's footing is steady and sure. Physical control of her new body comes easily to her, as natural as breathing.

"Morrigan is presently occupied," Sylvanna says, silencing the rush of hope that momentarily strips the words from her throat.

"Mother is presently occupied," the child corrects her, in a voice that is beautifully modulated and far older than her thirteen months. Reaching Sylvanna's side, she stretches her arms up, imperious demand in such a simple gesture.

Sylvanna scoops up the child who nestles her tousled head against her shoulder. The child grasps at lengths of her hair, clutching them within her chubby hand and giggling as she twines the strands around her fingers.

Insinuating herself into the hearts of others is just one more trick that the child is able to quickly master. She whispers the word again to Sylvanna, warm and generous, like a blessing.

Sylvanna closes her eyes, hot tears of sheer elation trailing down her cheeks as she cradles the warm body of a daughter that was never hers against her chest. She feels the word embed itself deeply into her heart, twisted permanently into place, and finally knows that this is one love she will never escape.

.

.

.

**Fidelity**

They skirt around the subject like swordsmen at play, avoiding any opening that may lead them down those darkened paths. Eventually, Sylvanna can stand it no longer and blurts it out, stumbling over words that were long repressed.

"What were you thinking?" she yells. "How was this ever going to be a good idea?"

"I owe you no explanation," Morrigan says.

Sylvanna stares at her, aghast, and then does the unthinkable.

She slaps Morrigan.

The force of it takes the witch by surprise, her eyes wide with shock as she stumbles back a step. Pursing her lips into a narrowed frown, she straightens and returns the favour, the back of her hand leaving a reddened mark on Sylvanna's cheek.

"Feel better?" Morrigan sneers.

"...No. No." Sylvanna breathes in sharply, her fingers flexing as if aching to strike Morrigan again. She looks up at her, searching for something ineffable in her eyes; remorse, or some trace of righteous surety. "Just tell me... tell me that you thought this was for the best," she pleads. "Tell me that you believed she wouldn't harm anyone, that the world would be a better place-"

"I cannot."

"Cannot?" Sylvanna demands. "Or will not?"

Morrigan brushes past her, but not before Sylvanna grabs her by the arm, her nails digging in as Morrigan rounds upon her with a hiss. "At least tell me that you regret what happened with Alistair," Sylvanna begs.

The temperature in the room seems to drop, Morrigan's expression becoming glacial. "You presume too much," she says, her voice dangerously soft. Her eyes are half-lidded, a trace of murderous intent in the set of her lips.

"How can you live with yourself? If you had any trace of goodness left, you would know that what you did was wrong."

"I did what I had to!" Morrigan's lips draw back in a snarl. "What you forced me to do. Your insufferable refusal to see reason was never part of the plan." Her fingers half-curl, reflexively, and Sylvanna can feel the stirrings of power beginning to gather, the tingle of magic setting her teeth on edge.

"I couldn't let you do it," Sylvanna says, glancing away. "You had to be stopped."

"Yet here you are."

"...Yes." Sylvanna looks up at her then, tears welling brightly in her eyes, and Morrigan bites down the acerbic comment she intended to make. She has long planned for this eventuality, the day when the warden became more of a liability than they could afford to endure.

Morrigan has always made the difficult choices without hesitation, and this is no different. She has already mourned for Sylvanna's death, some four years ago; Morrigan has always known that they were living on borrowed time. All such things must come to an end, and only a fool would try to deny it. She feels the energy swirling deep inside her, dark and potent, and she pulls-

"Mother."

Sylvanna's head tilts to the side, her eyes drawn to the open doorway, and Morrigan forces herself to relax, the magic dying down to nothing as she permits the spell to drain away.

The child moves calmly between them, heedless of the tension that has only heightened with her presence. She walks up to Sylvanna, the warden glancing at her askance, wary hesitation in the lines of her face.

"You look pale, Mama," the child says blithely, taking Sylvanna's hand within her own, much smaller one.

Sylvanna swallows reflexively and shakes her head, as though waking from a daze. "I am well," she offers, tentatively.

"I want you to be happy," the child insists, her voice almost a croon, her doll-like lips pursed in an uncommon frown. Watching them both, Morrigan takes a step forward, as if to intervene. At the slight movement, the child holds up her free hand imperiously, stopping the witch in her tracks.

"I am... happy," Sylvanna says dutifully, though her voice cracks on the words.

The child squeals with delight and claps her hands together, tiny baubles on her bracelets chiming with the movement. Beaming with pleasure, her smile lights up the room with its radiance, innocent and beautiful as no other child could be. She shoots a triumphant look towards Morrigan, smugly confident in this victory, before she turns to Sylvanna, smiling for her alone.

Her mother looks on at them both, her golden eyes narrowed in a frown.

It is not the first time that the child has rebelled against her mother's better judgment, using only the brute strength of her will.

Nor will it be the last.

.

.

.

**Love**

When they make love, it is an apology of sorts; a meagre offering on the altar of absolution. There is a sweetness to it, a familiarity that calls to Sylvanna, as undeniable as the taint in her blood. There must be madness in this, she knows, but Maker help her, she wants this, needs it to stay sane.

It is nothing like she expects, and yet it is everything she needs; warm and tender and achingly real.

Within the boundary of their limbs, nestled close and fitting together in a way that always felt so right, she can almost make herself believe that there never was a child. She closes her eyes and pretends that there never was any betrayal, any Blight; that this is all there ever was and all that ever will be.

Sometimes, Sylvanna dreams of saying 'no', just to prove that she still can.

Being with Morrigan is always about control.

It is obvious in the curve of Morrigan's lips, the measured gleam of her eyes; the way she refuses to let herself slip, even for a moment. She was not always this wary, or at least not as Sylvanna remembers her - laughingly indulgent and composed, even in the face of insurmountable odds.

Sylvanna remembers dimly that there was a moment when everything changed.

The past is immutable, and while she knows this to be true, she also knows that to let herself fully remember is to descend into madness.

Morrigan's crimes are far, far too great to ever deserve forgiveness.

Sylvanna knows this, and still she forgives, as she herself desperately longs to be forgiven.

.

.

.

**Care**

Sylvanna has never once asked Morrigan what she sees when she gazes upon their daughter.

Watching her now, Sylvanna cannot imagine her any other way. Her face still retains the sweet chubbiness of childhood, all artless grace and beguiling charm. She wears her hair long, despite Sylvanna's groans and muttered curses at the impossibility of removing all its knots. The red of it is striking, fiery and almost glowing in the sunlight with reflected heat. The baby blue of her eyes has since transformed into a vivid, reptilian gold that no elf has borne before. Somehow, the colour suits her completely, its draconic gleam a perfect match for her mother's eyes.

The child runs up to her, unending grace with every movement. Sylvanna's heart fills with such pride that it is almost fit to burst.

"There are men coming to see you, Mama," the child says slyly, slipping to Sylvanna's side.

Sylvanna stiffens in alarm, rising to her feet. The path ahead of them is clear, with no indication of any humanoid life bar themselves. "How do you know this?" she asks, taking her daughter by the hand.

"I saw them, while I was amongst the clouds," the child says. "Only five, all glimmering and glittering in their metal suits of arms. I considered making them love me, but they were quite unbecoming - not worthy at all, not a one of them."

Sylvanna looks down at her. Morrigan is more than a day's journey away from them, too far to be reached.

"They are coming this way," the child says with anticipation, seeming to relish the thought of their meeting. "Perhaps on the morrow."

Sylvanna considers this information, leading the child back to the confines of their house. There are wards placed upon their location, layers and layers of them built up over the years by both Morrigan and herself. Many are the same as those used by Flemeth, that kept her hidden even as the darkspawn erupted from the ground all around her. "That seems... unlikely," Sylvanna says with a frown, going through their defences in her mind.

The child giggles, covering her mouth with one hand. "Oh Mama, you are so silly," she laughs, the sound as pure as the chiming notes of a bell. "They are using your blood to find us."

Sylvanna's face goes as pale as a sheet, vague memories of unspoken threats and delicate glass vials; the metallic smell of blood in the air, red stains pooling at her feet; Jowan and the tower and-

"Then we'll just have to be ready for them, won't we?" she says.

The child laughs with glee and claps her hands together, feverish excitement in the gleam of her eyes.

.

.

.

The motions of battle return easily to Sylvanna. She settles instantly into the all too familiar rhythms, weaving in amongst the terrain and leading her enemies through the series of traps that she and the child have meticulously constructed.

The enemy has numbers on their side, but these are her lands and her house and her daughter.

The templars never stood a chance.

When it is over, Sylvanna straightens, casting a healing charm over herself almost as an afterthought. She rifles through the satchels and pockets of each of the bodies, whilst the child delights herself by picking over the remains. Sylvanna catches her daughter plucking out an eye with her bare fingertips and squeezing it curiously, and Sylvanna looks away, unbecomingly squeamish at the sight of dripping blood and viscous fluids.

The lead templar had his orders tucked away beneath his breastplate, and the child looks on as Sylvanna unfolds the crumpled paper. Sylvanna's expression darkens as she reads the missive, until she snaps her fingers and the paper is consumed by flames, minute specks of ash floating away with the breeze.

"Queen Anora," Sylvanna says, tasting the name as if to conjure up the past. She recalls an imperious voice, fine hands, a halo of blonde hair that had shone even in the midst of grime and despair. "That ungrateful hag."

She bends down to the templar's body once more and lifts a chain from around his neck, snapping the delicate silver links with a twist of her hand. Hanging from the remnants of the chain is a slender glass vial of blood, and this she remembers.

(_Six years old and so naive as to believe her world to be impregnable; torn from her dying mother's arms and taken away in the dead of night. They struck her when she cried and bled her until her phylactery was filled to the brim; insurance against desertion from the prison that stole away the better part of her life_.)__  
  
Sylvanna uncorks the vial and upends the tube, her blood dripping out and soaking into the welcoming earth. She crushes the empty vessel beneath her boot, the glass cracking and splintering under her weight. Behind her, the child watches on as the sunlight makes the shards sparkle like diamonds.

Sylvanna kneels down, looking her daughter in the eyes. "I will protect you," she avows.

The girl smiles prettily and tosses her hair in the sunlight. "I know," she says, and gently she takes Sylvanna's hand, clinging close to her.

.

.

.

**Wisdom**

During their eighth summer, the child vanishes.

This fact is unremarkable, on its own. There are many forms she knows, and many places in the forest for a curious young witch to explore. She has been hunting, with both of her mothers, and never once have they encountered a foe she could not defeat on her own.

And yet, Sylvanna is worried.

"Perhaps we should search for her," she suggests one morning.

"To what end?" Morrigan asks with a scowl. "'Tis most unnecessary. She will return when she chooses, and no sooner."

Sylvanna shakes her head, wrapping a cloak around her shoulders. "I'm going," she declares, "even if you're not."

As she walks away, Morrigan sighs heavily. "Wait," she calls out, and follows, wondering when she had ever become so suggestible.

.

.

.

It is easy enough to track the child, and this unnerves Sylvanna the most - the thought that her daughter has planned for this eventuality. Her trail leads to a Dalish camp, and Sylvanna frowns at the sight of its aravels. Common knowledge has it that only wild beasts, dryads and witches live in the Arbor Wilds, but Morrigan shows no surprise at the Dalish presence. Perhaps she has been aware of them through her aerial explorations, and Sylvanna swallows down a sudden stab of jealousy at never having been able to master the art of shapeshifting herself.

The edge of the camp is quiet, eerily so. Sylvanna's eyes scan the treetops, expecting to be greeted at any moment by a hail of arrows, but even the birds are silent. Despite her earlier nonchalance, Morrigan also seems uneasy, her lips turned down in a frown as they cautiously approach the heart of the camp.

The sound reaches them first, a susurrus of foreign words that blend together in a musical chant. Sylvanna turns to Morrigan with a worried look, and the witch puts a finger to her lips in a bid for silence as they inch forwards.

They pass empty shelters, tools discarded beside unfinished work. The indignant wail of a baby cuts through the chanting, raw with need and Sylvanna hesitates for a moment. Left bundled in its sling, the infant paws through the air like an upended turtle, its face red with crying, as forgotten as the untended fires and abandoned work.

"Leave him," Morrigan says sharply, and, after a moment, they move on.

Rounding the corner, they verge upon what must be the entire contingent of the Dalish camp - every man, woman and child. They huddle in a posture of supplication with their faces pressed into the dirt, each of their bodies pointed in the same direction. Sylvanna used to dream of being Dalish, being accepted, even loved by a people who found magic as natural as laughter or song. It hurts her now to see them reduced like this, their pride and bonds of kinship offering no defence against the being that stands before them.

At the centre of them all, is their daughter.

She is not how Sylvanna remembers her.

She rises triumphant from the midst of her followers, her hair an incandescent halo of light that floats gently, tendrils drifting slightly with the breeze. Her feet do not touch the ground, as she outstretches her hands towards the huddled masses, glowing and generous with her benediction.

Sylvanna takes a step forward, feeling the warmth of the child's power wash over her, soft and inviting. She closes her eyes, feeling it settle on her skin, basking in the radiance that is far sweeter than any dream she has ever dreamed. Suddenly, she flinches with a start, her eyes opening wide as Morrigan's fingernails dig into her arm just above her elbow, preventing her from taking another step forward.

Both of them turn to look at the being they have unleashed upon the world, struggling to see a trace of the child's former innocence within a form that must have no concept of morality. It is impossible to reconcile this with the girl Sylvanna has nurtured from infancy to childhood, the baby she has cradled at her breast. She imagines Morrigan running through the same thoughts, struggling to comprehend the power they have wrought upon all of Thedas.

"By the Maker," Sylvanna whispers, unable to help herself. Morrigan curses, tightening her grip sufficiently to draw blood.

The Child turns to face them, the elves trembling and prostrating themselves even further into the ground as Her attention drifts towards the two apostates. Magnanimously She smiles, and the force of Her benevolence stretches out towards them like a shockwave, enough to bring Sylvanna to her knees. Beside her, she feels Morrigan doing the same.

_THERE IS NO MAKER._

The Voice is felt through their bones, brushing at the fringes of their minds, enveloping them with its cadence and tone. Her smile is beatific, and Sylvanna can feel the warmth of it wash over her even as she keeps her eyes lowered lest they burn from the radiance of Her glory.

Around her, she can hear the elves whimpering, can hear the crying of children that is quickly silenced. When the Voice speaks again, Sylvanna presses her hands over her ears to stop them from bleeding. In her mind, she prays for the fate of the world, and prays that she will not live to see its end.

_THERE IS ONLY I._


	2. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some words from the Chant of Light have been appropriated (thank you, DA wiki). As always, Dragon Age belongs to BioWare.
> 
> With eternal thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice :-)

.

.

.

**PART I  
**

.

.

.

**Val Royeaux**

Her Perfection, the Most Holy Divine Amedea IV, was troubled.

Rumours had been bubbling out of Ferelden for months now, with a frequency and consistency that spoke of more than idle gossip. '_The return of an Old God,_' her informants had whispered. '_A new religion. A return to the old ways. Sacrilege against the Maker._'

Word from Minrathous implied that the Tevinters were watching the situation closely, wary for any sign that the infection might spread north to their kingdom. Privately, Amedea considered that those heretics were just as likely to welcome the so-called 'god' with open arms as to rise up against her. The Archon and his bevy of magisters were probably slobbering at the thought of whatever demonic power they could wrest from the false god; after all, the Tevinters were the first to worship them - the originators of the First Sin.

If the rumours were true (and Amedea felt in her heart that they were true), then an alliance between the false god and the Imperium could threaten the fate of the Chantry, not to mention Orlais - nay, the fate of all of Thedas. Dark times were ahead; she could feel it in her bones.

With such thoughts on her mind, even the perfection of the glowing spring morning and the beauty of the grounds surrounding the Grand Cathedral failed to move her. The lawn was perfectly manicured, the hedges trimmed and sculpted into intricate designs, but it would be all for naught if she allowed that - that usurper to replace the Maker in the hearts and minds of her people.

Beside Her Perfection, Sister Heloise struggled to keep pace, a pile of books and paperwork making a heavy burden in her arms. She was a good woman, albeit timid, a trait that was not always desirable in one who would carry out the divine will of the Maker. His judgements could be harsh, and acceptance of His grace often required a certain strength of character that the good sister seemed to lack.

Sister Heloise realigned the papers in her arms, and coughed politely to draw the divine's attention. "The elves are calling her 'Ishantha', which means-"

"'She who is beautiful,'" the divine said. The Tevinters had worshipped the being in its previous form, as Urthemiel. Perhaps the false god's choice of a new name suggested that a different kind of regime was in store for the people of Ferelden.

"The Maker, in His infinite wisdom, chooses to send us these trials, to test us," the divine continued, her eyes on the path ahead. "We must not fall short of His expectations, Sister. We must not allow this false god to prey upon the weak and the wicked, to draw the faithful from the blessed sanctity of the Maker's Word. 'For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light...'"

"'And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost,'" Sister Heloise said, finishing the verse.

The divine inclined her head slightly, her lips pursed in a narrow line. "Bring me the Commander of the Grey," she ordered. "I would see him directly in my study."

Sister Heloise tried to hide her surprise by bowing. "It shall be done, Your Perfection."

The divine continued her perambulation, walking more swiftly now that she was alone, and brooded silently over the status of her flock. That this would come down to war, she had no doubt. Others, however, did not share her views. Empress Celene presided over a delicate peace with Ferelden's bastard king, and feared any action that might be perceived as the harbinger of an Orlesian invasion. For the moment, the divine's hands were tied, but she had little faith that the Grand Cleric of Ferelden would be able to subdue the usurper. Ferelden was a savage place, her people uncouth and barbaric. Little wonder, then, that they would turn away from the Maker for some - some half-grown upstart who had been raised in the wilds.

No; Ferelden would be unable to stop the false god, Amedea was sure of it. In the end, the Maker would have His due, and it would be borne on a sea of blood and fire.

.

.

.

"Tell me again," Amedea demanded.

Commander Guillaume of the Orlesian Grey Wardens inclined his head, pausing to consider his words. He was a man of middling years, his cropped brown hair speckled with streaks of grey. Much speculation was made about the circumstances that led to his Joining, but his contemporaries had so far remained silent on the matter, and the warden-commander himself never spoke of it.

He was known to be a gruff man, taciturn and difficult to please. Less well-known was the fact that he was also a pious man, and it was this trait that Amedea was aiming to capitalise upon when she summoned him to her study.

"Your Perfection," Guillaume began carefully, "the things we've discussed are considered to be grey warden secrets..."

"Yes, I know," Amedea said, with a wave of her hand. "They will remain secrets, I swear on the Light of the Maker." She leant forward in her chair, steepling her hands over the top of the desk. "Now: tell me again about the ritual."

The commander shifted uneasily, his eyes sliding off the divine's face and onto a portrait of Andraste, hung over the fireplace. It depicted her armies standing against the gates of Minrathous, Andraste burning at the stake before them, the flames flaring red and orange into a blackened sky. Amedea followed his gaze, and her mouth twitched into a rare smile.

"One woman may change the world, if she is strong of faith and pure in spirit," she intoned, as if standing before a pulpit. "Of course, we must never forget that one woman can destroy the world, if we permit such evil to rise unchecked."

Guillaume glanced towards the door of the study to ensure that it was fully shut. Lowering his voice, he stepped closer, until he was almost standing at the edge of the desk.

"For an archdemon to truly die, a grey warden must also perish in the process of killing it. Our research has suggested that there are... ways around this, none of them pleasant." He clasped his hands behind his back, his face grim. "It is said that if an unborn child who carries the taint is present at the time of death, the soul of the archdemon will transfer into the child, and will not be destroyed."

Amedea tapped her nails on the desk, one hand under her chin. "The Fereldans claim that there were only three grey wardens present at the end of the Blight. Only three who bore the taint. Whose child is it?"

Guillaume settled his face into a mask of inscrutability, his eyes staring straight ahead. "We are unsure, Your Perfection."

She made a sound of displeasure and waved a hand irritably, gems flashing brightly on her fingers. "No matter. Though if she is indeed the whelp of that bastard king, one wonders whether he planned to give his kingdom to her on a silver platter."

"It is said that Alistair Theirin is... not a political man."

Amedea curled her lip in a sneer. "All rulers learn to play the Grand Game. In this respect, Fereldans are no different from our own court. How many Grey wardens can you spare from your Order, Commander?"

Guillaume hesitated. "Perhaps a thousand, Your Perfection," he offered.

"Write to the Order in Ferelden," she instructed. "Tell them that you will be bringing reinforcements, to assist them with the task that they should have finished themselves, ten years ago."

Guillaume cleared his throat, as though preparing a counter-argument. "Your Perfection-"

"I want you to lead this personally, Warden-Commander," Amedea said with narrowed eyes.

"As the Maker wills it." Guillaume dropped to one knee and took her hand as she offered it, his breath upon her fingers as he kissed her ring.

"Maker bless your sacred task, Warden-Commander," Amedea intoned. "May He guide your path from the darkness and into the Light."

"I will not fail you, Your Perfection," Guillaume said solemnly.

"I have the utmost faith in you, Warden-Commander," Amedea said, her lips curling into a smile.

"After all, the Maker is on your side."

.

.

.

**South Reach**

The past three winters had been unseasonably harsh in Ferelden. Game was scarce, the bitter cold proving to be deadly for both old and young alike. The coming of spring promised little respite; as the rivers thawed, fishermen's nets came up empty and ploughshares struggled to break into soil that was still hard and unyielding. Many men began to fear the long walk back to their houses, facing the hollow faces of their wives and children with naught but a promise that tomorrow would bring better fortune.

Not all of Ferelden was suffering to the same extent, however. Rumours had it that the south-west of the nation was enduring, prospering, even, their livestock healthy and fattened to perfection, their larders overflowing from the last season's harvest.

It was said that the winds of change were blowing. Whispers passed from traveller to merchant to housewife spoke of a living god, a being more powerful than the Maker Himself, who blessed her followers with an endless bounty of riches. The Chantry had been swift to enact retribution upon the traders of such blasphemous gossip, taking an iron fist to any suggestion of impiety. _There is only one true god_, they proclaimed, _and He is our Maker. _Still, the rumours spread like wildfire, from hungry mouths that wearied of the empty pit in their bellies. Attempts to silence the whisperers only strengthened their tales, giving credence to the belief that an Old God had returned. Families packed their meagre belongings onto carts, heading for the long journey west to Redcliffe, which was rumoured to be the seat of the Child God's power.

The Chantry called her an abomination, a demon wearing mortal flesh, sent to beguile men and seduce them from the righteous path of the Maker. Others wondered if she was Andraste reborn, sent to save mankind from their own wickedness. And still others called her maleficar, a sorceress who nurtured the land by bathing it in the blood of innocents.

Mother Ragnall knew the rumours, and they chilled her heart to the bone. She prayed nightly for deliverance from the famine that was plaguing them. She prayed for faith and patience to blossom in the hearts of men, whose children had succumbed to the bitter cold. It was these followers that she feared for the most, those who believed that they had little more to lose. Her tongue stumbled over platitudes and scriptures when they came to her, furious in their grief, turning their anger upon the Maker who had created them. Mother Ragnall had few satisfactory answers as to why the Maker allowed some to live and some to die, why innocent children were taken when villainous brigands walked unharmed, why Redcliffe prospered where South Reach was dying.

"_Have faith in the Maker_," was all that she could offer, and for some, this was not enough.

.

.

.

It was late when Mother Ragnall finished her prayers. Her limbs were cramped and sore from kneeling, and the candles on the altar had melted down to tiny stubs. She got to her feet, slowly, and felt her eyes watering, as the smell of burning wood hung thickly in the air.

Turning her head in alarm, she saw tendrils of black smoke creeping under the door from the back of the Chantry. She stared at them unbelieving, shock rooting her in place.

"Revered Mother!" Cedric, the village blacksmith burst into the Chantry, his burly form filling the doorway. Mother Ragnall coughed, choking on the smoke that was now filling the room. Cedric took her arm, guiding her, stumbling and spluttering out of the building.

"The Chantry is burning," Cedric told her, a thin note of fear in his voice. Lifting her head, Mother Ragnall saw the truth of the matter - flames were eating away at the old wooden building, soot and ash filling the air.

"How?" Mother Ragnall asked, her voice trembling. Her mouth was dry and tasted of ashes, and the tears stinging her eyes had little now to do with the heat.

"The Maker has abandoned us," a voice said from behind them. Mother Ragnall turned to see Tristan, one of the village's fishermen standing before her, his eyes cold and hard in the light of the flames. She had delivered both of Tristan's children, holding his wife's hand through the pain of labour. She had buried the youngest, an infant boy, not more than two months ago. Throughout her sermon, Tristan had stared blankly ahead and refused to cry, as though he were already dead.

"How dare you blaspheme before Her Reverence!" Cedric growled, his hands tightening into fists. Mother Ragnall placed her hand against the blacksmith's forearm.

"Tristan, you know not of what you speak," she pleaded. "The Maker has not abandoned you-"

Tristan laughed, hollow and mocking. "If He has not, then why do our prayers go unanswered? Why does He allow the innocent to suffer? If the Maker is here, then may He strike me down for all my sins," he said coldly.

Mother Ragnall flinched as though she had been struck, her eyes wide with horror. "Tristan, did you... did you do this?" she asked, her voice quavering as she gestured towards the burning shell of the Chantry.

"We did it together," Tristan announced. Behind him, Mother Ragnall could see a crowd forming: men and women with cold, hard faces, scrawny children peeking out from behind their mothers' skirts for a better view. "The Risen God is kind to those who prove worthy of Her grace, but Her love demands an offering. We must prove to Her that we are worthy, that we have cast down the Maker who abandoned us and that we are prepared to follow Her ways."

Tristan took a step towards the Revered Mother. In the light of the flames, she could see the glint of a knife in his hands.

"The Risen God requires sacrifice," Tristan insisted, an edge of madness to his voice that frightened her more than the blade in his hands.

"You are all mad!" Cedric shouted, taking a step protectively in front of the Revered Mother. "This crime will not go unpunished!"

"Take them both!" a voice shouted from behind Tristan.

Mother Ragnall screamed, feeling a rough hand grasping her by the shoulder. A blow struck her at the side of her face, and she felt a trickle of blood sliding down her cheek.

It took four men to subdue Cedric. The blacksmith fought valiantly, the muscles standing out against his neck as he struggled against the villagers, people he had once thought to call friends.

"This is for our children," Tristan insisted, peering down into his face. Cedric's eyes were clouded with blood, and he blinked, but his vision still swam as though he was viewing the world through the bottom of a glass.

"You're mad, Tristan," the blacksmith said hoarsely. "This will not bring back your son."

The man shrugged and turned away, his thin shoulders hunched against the cold night air. "Take them away," he ordered, gesturing to their two prisoners.

"This sin will not be forgotten," Mother Ragnall promised him, in a trembling voice. "The Maker shall enact His retribution upon you and all of your kin."

Tristan scowled as he turned to her, and spat in the dirt beside her feet. "That is what I think of your Maker," he snarled, and at those words, Mother Ragnall fell silent.

.

.

.

The mob took them to the outskirts of the village, where only wolves, deserters and the bodies of criminals dwelled. Mother Ragnall shivered; in the light of the torches, shadows leapt and danced across thin faces, hardened by hunger and despair.

"I know you," she whispered to the man who was pushing her forwards. "I was there when you were born. I wed you to your wife. Why are you doing this?"

The man looked away, his eyes sliding from her face, but not before she had witnessed the depth of guilt within them. "I'm sorry," was all he offered, as he bade her step up onto a platform beneath the gallows, and wound a noose around her neck.

Mother Ragnall glanced across as the same procedure was carried out with Cedric. The large man had sustained far more blows than she, and his chest oozed blood that soaked steadily into his shirt. His head slumped forward, as if he were half-dead already.

"The Maker will reward you for your courage, good Cedric," Mother Ragnall promised him. "'Blessed are the righteous,'" she whispered, her voice hoarse, the rope pressing tightly against her throat. "'The lights in the shadow; in their blood, the Maker's will is written.'"

"May Ishantha bless our lands," Tristan invoked, holding a torch aloft, the light shining hard in Mother Ragnall's eyes. "May She give succour to our children and may She deliver us from the famine that has blighted our lives."

"_In Her name_," the villagers chanted.

Mother Ragnall kept her eyes open as long as she was able, to better see His Light. There was a sickening noise as the support was kicked out from under her feet, and the gasps of children as she dangled, loose and struggling at the end of her rope.

It took well over five minutes before Cedric's body stopped twitching, and the villagers stood silently, watching. Not a word was spoken between them; not a rustle of a breeze came to interrupt the silence.

Mother Ragnall's eyes stared blankly from her face, glassy and unmoving.

She had found her light, at last.

.

.

.

The next day, the fishermen of South Reach ventured out onto the river, and they did not return empty handed.

When Tristan retraced his steps to the gallows, seeking to cut down the two bodies that were hanging there, he found only the empty ropes, swaying gently in the breeze. There were no signs of wild animals, and no traces of spilt blood where the bodies had been taken down, but beneath the gallows was a thick, dense carpet of new grass, the tendrils waving gently in the early morning air. He touched a hand to the nearest noose, as if to check that it was still whole, and when he drew his fingers back, they were coated in a fine film of red dust.

The burnt shell of the Chantry loomed over the village, its blackened husk a permanent reminder of the price they had paid for their faith. Children picked over its bones, playing hide and seek within the ruins. Mothers shook their heads in despair when their sons and daughters returned, faces filled with soot and clothes filthy beyond recovery, but secretly they cherished each crooked smile and ringing peal of laughter.

Spring had arrived in South Reach.


	3. Child's Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter has a trigger warning as it briefly refers to the aftermath of rape.
> 
> With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**Frostback Mountains, four months ago**

On their fifth night back in Ferelden, Sylvanna cried.

It wasn't the cold, or the rain, or the disgusting food. It wasn't even the feeling of snow turning to slush beneath her boots, or the sound of the King's tongue ringing from every passing traveller.

It was the smell of wet dog that disconcerted her, until the tears ran, hot and salty down her cheeks. She tried to silence her sobs with a hand pressed tightly against her mouth, her chest aching. The memories came, unbidden, of a damp nose that had pushed itself against her hands, a stocky frame that had stood beside her, unwavering in the face of danger and loyal to to a fault. She whispered his name for the first time in nine years, and it burned itself into her memory like a brand.

Ishantha found her, eventually, and Sylvanna tried to compose herself, drying her eyes on the back of a handkerchief.

"I could give you another puppy," her daughter offered, wide-eyed and earnest. "Lots and lots of puppies."

Sylvanna shook her head, brushing the limp hair back from her face. "No, sweetling," she murmured, trying to smile. "I have all the love I need, right here," she said, although her daughter only stared at her and frowned.

Much later, she noticed the pack of wolves that seemed to be trailing them through the Frostback Mountains. Their howls echoed through their camp at night, wild and foreboding, their yellow eyes tracking them through the darkness. Morrigan sat up at that terrible sound, her face full of yearning, and she disappeared without a further word.

When questioned about the wolves' presence, Ishantha only smiled sweetly and shrugged, feigning ignorance. Morrigan returned, eventually, speaking to no one and gliding through their camp like a wild thing, aloof and untouchable.

In time, Sylvanna told Ishantha to dismiss her 'furry friends', before they began to prey upon the young and infirm who were travelling amongst their retinue. Her daughter complied, though reluctantly, and then later complained of missing their camaraderie and unwavering faith.

Within a week, the pack began trailing them again, and Sylvanna was forced to admit defeat.

Her daughter, it seemed, rarely took 'no' for an answer.

.

.

.

**Redcliffe, three months ago**

"Perhaps we should not have come," Sylvanna murmured as they approached Redcliffe, her eyes drawn to the silhouette of the castle rising over the land.

"Don't be silly, Mama," Ishantha chided, skipping along the dusty path that led down to the village. They came alone, as the Dalish seemed to prefer the security of the surrounding forests. Fortunately for Sylvanna, the wolf pack had also disappeared.

The villagers of Redcliffe drew back into their houses at their arrival, peering fearfully through shuttered windows and silencing the voices of curious children. Ishantha paid them no mind, strolling carelessly through the empty village as though she owned it.

"It's so quiet," Sylvanna said as they approached the castle. She had expected a contingent of guards to greet them, or servants at the very least, but they were met with only silence, and the fluttering of the castle's banners flying gaily in the breeze overhead.

"They are waiting for us," Ishantha said. The arl had made extensive repairs since the darkspawn invasion, just prior to the end of the Blight; Sylvanna could see the different colourations in the masonry of the castle, here and there. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, and Morrigan tossed her a curious glance as she did so. There were too many memories here, in Redcliffe, in Ferelden herself. Who knew what secrets would be unearthed upon their return?

The doors to the audience chamber swung slowly inwards as they approached, the two servants attending the entrance way maintaining a posture of obsequiousness as they shut the doors behind their little party.

To Sylvanna's surprise, it was Bann Teagan (Arl Teagan?) and not his brother who awaited them inside. He had aged poorly, his once-handsome face looking grey and haggard, though perhaps it was only the stress of recent months that had affected him so. Beside him stood an anxious looking woman, whom Sylvanna presumed to be his wife, and clasped tightly by the woman's side was a girl of perhaps six or seven.

Teagan came to his feet as they approached, his mouth set in a grim line.

"Arl Teagan," Ishantha said in greeting. "I take it you know who I am."

"State your piece, demon, and be done with it," the arl said. His wife cringed at his tone of voice, her hand tightening protectively upon the shoulder of her daughter. The woman was staring at Sylvanna in a way that made the warden feel like she was being examined from the inside out.

"Renounce the Maker," Ishantha said, ignoring his disdain. "Place your faith in me, and I will... be kind to you and your family."

Teagan shook his head slowly, his eyes blazing with anger. "You may have ensorcelled my house and home, you may have enslaved my people, but demon - I swear I shall not fall to you so willingly."

Ishantha ignored him, beckoning to the girl standing to one side. "It's Roslyn, isn't it?" she asked. The girl nodded, her frightened face turning to her mother for reassurance. "Lovely rose," Ishantha murmured, rolling the name in her mouth as if tasting it. Teagan suppressed a look of alarm, the expression quickly replaced by furious anger.

"Grey Warden," the arl said, his eyes seeking out Sylvanna, "you helped us save Redcliffe, once. Why are you letting her do this?"

"You saved my brother," his wife added. "Bevin. Don't you remember?" she pleaded, her hands wringing together as she stared at the warden.

Sylvanna looked more closely at the woman. She had dark blonde hair, woven into narrow braids that stopped short of her shoulders. They had met a brother and sister in Redcliffe... Sylvanna remembered a muffled voice coming from inside a closet, and there had been a sword... "Kaitlyn?" she asked.

Morrigan apparently also remembered the girl and the brother. She crossed her arms, scowling at the family Kaitlyn had made for herself. "A peasant girl, now the Arlessa of Redcliffe? You have come far, indeed."

Sylvanna shook her head, taking a step forward. "Please, Kaitlyn," she said, "it will be easier if you... just do as she asks."

Kaitlyn turned to the arl, her hand resting tightly on the shoulder of her daughter. "Husband, I beg of you," she implored, "I don't want any more trouble."

The arl grimaced, his eyes passing over the Child God's motley group and the glazed-over faces of the servants and guards that were present in the room. "I cannot," he said at last, with a resentful look at the warden.

Ishantha sighed. "Oh Teagan, you disappoint me." Gesturing to the guards, she pointed towards the arl. "Take them away to the tower," she ordered. "Leave the girl."

"No," the arlessa cried out, clinging to her daughter. "No! I... I will do whatever you want. Warden, please," she begged, falling to her knees. Roslyn began to cry, burying her face into the safety of her mother's gown. Sylvanna took a step forward, as if to go to her aid. Noticing this, Morrigan placed a warning hand on her elbow, and upon seeing her expression, Sylvanna silenced whatever words may have been on her lips.

"And you, Arl?" Ishantha asked pleasantly, choosing to ignore the unspoken dialogue passing between her mothers. "What say you?"

Teagan's gaze drifted between his wife and daughter and the Child God, the latter's face blithely innocent. "No," he said quietly. "Maker forgive me, I won't kneel to you."

"Teagan!"

"So be it," Ishantha said, as the guards moved towards the arl and his wife. The arlessa screamed as she was dragged from her daughter, who continued to cry.

"Don't be afraid," Ishantha said as she cupped the girl's tear-stained face, Roslyn recoiling from her in horror.

"We're going to be friends."

.

.

.

**Redcliffe, present day**

Ishantha was playing.

Her mothers watched her warily from the docks of Lake Calenhad, the girl's raucous splashing drawing a slew of curious eyes. Ishantha had never seen such a large body of water before, and within three days of their arrival in Redcliffe, she had learned to take the form of a trout. She had gone exploring for hours at a time, feeling the cool, liquid tension of the water part before her fins and gliding through the silent depths and debris at the bottom of the lake. Eventually, Sylvanna had banned the practice, fearing that she might find her daughter on the wrong end of a fisherman's hook. Ishantha had sulked for weeks.

"Is that the tower you spoke of, Mama?" Ishantha asked as she bounded up to them, her clothes dripping copious amounts of water and smelling of pondweed. She pointed to Kinloch Hold across the lake, better known as the Circle Tower, or 'home' as it had been to Sylvanna, many years ago.

Sylvanna nodded, unable to form the words that were sticking in her throat. She had hated it - hated the rules, hated the templars, hated the deaths. But the evils within the tower had been nothing compared to the evil of men in the world outside.

"Come, child; you are soaking wet," Morrigan said.

Ishantha looked down as herself, as if seeing the state of her clothes for the first time. "Oh," she said, as though surprised, and touched a hand to her damp hair, shaking herself like a wet dog. Morrigan grimaced, shielding her face from the splatter that flew out in all directions from her daughter. Ishantha summoned a vortex of warm air around herself to dry her clothes, her tangled hair blowing into rough curls and wafting around her head in a blood-red halo.

Sylvanna smiled sadly at the child-like display, absently wiping a trace of moisture from her cheek. She was reminded, uncomfortably, of the path their journey had taken here.

"That man is staring at you, Mama," Ishantha said casually, tossing her now-dried hair over her shoulder.

Sylvanna sighed. "Perhaps he's staring at you. I suspect he's never seen such a filthy child in his life."

"Look," Ishantha ordered.

Sylvanna raised her eyes. There was indeed a man who seemed to be watching them, glancing nervously towards Sylvanna and then sliding off again. She pursed her lips and frowned. His features were nothing out of the ordinary; he seemed middle-aged, limp, straw-coloured hair plastered to his head, a paunch hanging low over his belt. She certainly would never have been able to pick him out in a crowd.

"I've never seen him before," she said. Morrigan glanced over, her eyes flicking curiously between the stranger and Sylvanna.

"You," Ishantha shouted, waving over at the man. He cringed as he felt their gaze upon him, almost looking as though he was preparing to flee. "Come here," she ordered.

He took his time walking over to them, glancing over his shoulder every now and then as if checking to see if he could garner any assistance from a passerby. The other villagers, upon noticing who was summoning him, gave the man a wide berth and hurried away, pretending not to see him.

"Stop," Ishantha said flatly when he stepped down to the docks, standing a dozen feet from them. "Do you recognise him now?"

Sylvanna began to shake her head, and then she looked more closely and really - truly - saw him. He met her scrutiny with a wary, furtive air, a bead of sweat running down past his ear.

She flinched as though she had been struck, the blood draining from her face as she instinctively took a step backwards. "You should be dead," she insisted, her hands gathering a trace of magic around her protectively. "I thought you were - I had hoped-" she swallowed, and the aurora around her hands grew brighter, the light glowing cold and strong. "How many more of you are alive?" she demanded.

The man wrung his hands together, cringing. "The rest perished at Fort Drakon, Warden…"

"Fort Drakon?" Morrigan repeated incredulously. "Then this cretin-"

"Yes," Sylvanna said. Her voice sounded very far away from her, as if it were not her own. She pressed her fingertips together and the light died out of them, the unfinished spell draining away.

"Do you not wish to enact your revenge, at last?" Morrigan asked, looking as though she would be more than happy to do it for her.

"What are you talking about?" Ishantha demanded. "What has he done?"

Sylvanna considered. She had put the events of that day far out of her mind for over ten years. Revenge had always been a shallow dream; thoughts of what a healer and a blood mage could do to a man, together, had briefly entertained her thoughts for several painful nights. But there had always been bigger things at stake, and now that she and Morrigan were here and he was here, delivered on a silver platter, well…

If Sylvanna didn't know better, she would have said that it was the Maker's grace that had brought them together.

Evidentially tiring of being talked over, Ishantha decided to take matters into her own hands. Seeing the expression on the young girl's face, the man began to back away.

"No," he whimpered. "Please, have mercy-"

"Ishantha, no," Sylvanna cried out, grasping her daughter by the shoulder, but it was too late.

A spell wafted around the man, ancient and incorporeal. As the mages watched on, a portion of blood drained out of his body as he screamed, the particles rising fine and mist-like in the cool spring air.

As Ishantha concentrated, the droplets formed pictures; indistinct and hazy at first, but gradually growing clearer with each passing moment. Behind them, the man groaned, collapsing to his knees. The young girl ignored him, sifting through his thoughts and memories like an intrepid explorer. Visions of the man's life in Redcliffe flickered and dispersed, being reformed anew into older, less precise images, dating back to the time of the Blight.

The pictures moved, making an animated tableaux of the man's last few days in Denerim. Ishantha peered at them curiously, while Sylvanna looked away and tried to block the imagery out of her mind.

Ishantha waved a hand, and the bloody mist coalesced, falling in fat, loud droplets upon the planks of the dock and between the slats into the water below, staining the lake with gore.

"I see why you tried to hide this from me," she said, staring at the quivering heap of fear who was grovelling before her. "What should we do with him?" she asked, directing her question to the two women standing beside her.

Morrigan turned to Sylvanna, a tightly controlled expression of malice on her face. "You and I could keep such a creature alive for many, many months," she offered softly, her fingers curling slightly as though already eager to be started.

Sylvanna blanched. "No," she said, surprising even herself as she said it.

"What do you mean, 'no' ?" Morrigan asjed. "This man deserves far worse than death."

"No," Sylvanna repeated, more firmly this time. "I... would have him experience the compassion that I was denied."

Ishantha made a sound of dismay, her face flushing with aggravation. "Mama, it wouldn't even have to be messy."

The man shuddered at their words, prostrating himself before their feet. "Mercy, please, Warden," he implored, his hands clasped in supplication.

Sylvanna looked down at him. She had been afraid; for days, weeks, maybe even longer afterwards; afraid of feeling helpless, afraid of being trapped. She could see the same fear running through him now, bitter and cold and fierce.

"He is yours," she said to her daughter, without taking her eyes from him. "But make it quick."

Ishantha's face turned sulky, her eyes dark and tumultuous. "Are you sure?" she asked again, hanging onto hope with a relentless grip.

Sylvanna turned to her, bending down to meet her at eye level. "You must always be in control, Ishantha," she cautioned, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind the girl's ear. "Restrain your anger, and you will show the world that you can be merciful, as well as strong."

As she straightened, Sylvanna glanced warily across at Morrigan, as if daring her to say something contradictory. Much to her surprise, Morrigan remained silent, although from the set of her lips, she seemed somewhat less than pleased.

Ishantha pouted for a moment more, turning her eyes back to the man who was cowering before them. "Very well," she agreed at last.

The former soldier pressed his forehead against the planks of the dock once, before raising his eyes and beginning to babble. "Thank you, Warden," he managed to gasp out. "Thank you so much-"

_SILENCE._

Sylvanna flinched as the Voice resounded around them, and Morrigan also seemed to draw back in pain.

_I ACCEPT YOUR UNWORTHY LIFE._

Ishantha raised a hand, and the man came to his feet, as though pulled by invisible strings. His eyes seemed vacant and glassy as he hovered there, waiting. Slowly and deliberately, Ishantha closed Her hand into a fist, and the man screamed.

Sylvanna forced herself to watch as his body slowly disintegrated in layers. The skin and hair peeled away from his body to reveal the underlying tissue which glistened wetly, the muscles still flexing where he struggled to draw breath for another scream. His diaphragm contracted, his beating heart still striving uselessly to pump blood to his lungs. All of that red and streaky flesh slowly degraded away, unwrapping itself like a child's present down to the bones and grinning skull.

Ishantha blew gently on the skeleton, and the remnants of the man scattered into a fine, red dust, spreading out across the shore of the lake. Where the particles touched the soil, thin, fragile seedlings began to sprout, raising uncertain tendrils towards the waiting sky.

"It is done," Ishantha said softly, and she seemed to glow with a new energy, warm and bright around her.

"Thank you," Sylvanna said, hugging her, breathing in the scent of fresh grass as she pressed her face into her daughter's hair. "For being lenient."

"I'm too old for hugs, Mama," Ishantha complained, and wriggled free from her grasp, as peevish and self-conscious as any other nine-year-old. As she ran off with child-like exuberance, she had never seemed so… mortal to Sylvanna before, and her heart ached for her daughter.

"We should talk," Morrigan said, interrupting her thoughts.

Sylvanna nodded. It was well past time.

.

.

.

The two mages watched their daughter at play from the relative quiet of their third-storey balcony. Ishantha had dragged out the arl's daughter, Roslyn, and appeared to be trying to teach her some sort of game using a long piece of string. The poor thing was still so timid and in awe; not that she could be blamed for it, Sylvanna supposed. Terrorising her parents was probably not the best first impression that Ishantha could have made.

"She just looks so young," Sylvanna said mournfully, as if regretting the unending trickle of days and months slipping through her fingers.

"She is no child," Morrigan said. "You would do well to remember that."

"But she is, Morrigan; can't you see?" Sylvanna pursed her lips, before turning her attention back to the courtyard below. "She still needs your guidance and advice," she continued. "She needs direction and boundaries. A sense of what is right."

Morrigan breathed out, gesturing towards the scene below. "Her powers are undeveloped, and she is new to the world in this form. That does not make her a child."

"Look at how she's playing," Sylvanna insisted. "Doesn't that look child-like to you?"

Morrigan reluctantly lowered her eyes, and looked. "Adopting a guise of innocent simplicity to deceive another hardly counts as being child-like," she said eventually, after a moment's considered observation.

"That's not a guise," Sylvanna protested. "I think it's rather cute. She needs friends close to her own age."

Morrigan sighed. "Why did you allow him to die?" she asked, her words carefully pitched so that they would not be overheard. "You must have dreamt of their suffering - must have hungered for it."

Sylvanna's face went dark, as she weighed up her next words in her mind. "I wanted Ishantha to learn that just because you have the power to hurt someone, it doesn't mean that you should."

"And you believe that she has learnt this?"

"I don't know," Sylvanna admitted. "I hope so."

They watched their daughter playing in companionable silence, broken only by Ishantha's noisy shrieks of laughter that managed to echo all the way up to their vantage point.

"What do you see in her?" Sylvanna asked eventually.

"A very confident little girl; head-strong, wilful."

"No. I mean, when you look at her." Sylvanna gestured, leaning over the edge of the balustrade. "I assume it's different to what I see."

"Whatever bids you to say that?" Morrigan asked.

"She looks elven to me," Sylvanna admitted. "And to the Dalish as well, I assume. Though she has your eyes."

Morrigan considered the scene below, her head tilted to one side. "Perhaps her ears are slightly pointed," she ventured dubiously.

"What colour is her hair?" Sylvanna challenged.

"Black. And for you?"

"As red as the cliffs that surround us. Maybe darker," Sylvanna said on reflection. "Like spilt blood."

The two women contemplated their daughter, and her many visages in silence.

"It's not natural," Sylvanna said quietly. "What she's capable of. What she is."

"I suspect they said the very same thing of you, did they not?" Morrigan reminded her. "They would have called you 'witch', 'unnatural', 'demon-consort'... People loathe and fear the forces that they cannot comprehend."

"They will try to contain her," Sylvanna said, lowering her eyes. "Control her. Kill her. She's too much of a threat to ignore. Isn't she?"

Sylvanna was startled to feel the unexpected pressure of Morrigan's palm pressing into her own, and she glanced up. She squeezed Morrigan's hand, feeling the warmth of it under her fingertips.

"You have nothing to fear," Morrigan said, brushing the hair back from Sylvanna's face.

"You are a terrible liar," Sylvanna protested, but there was no venom in her words. She leant in towards Morrigan, her lips parting for a kiss. Morrigan indulged her, before taking a step back, still clasping Sylvanna's hand in her own.

"Leave the children to their play," Morrigan said, her eyes half-lowered in invitation. "Let us retire to more... adult endeavours."

"Temptress," Sylvanna said, but she followed obediently at the slight pressure on her hand, and for a while, there was no more talking.


	4. The Theirin Birthright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I was really very touched by the depth of the reviews to the last chapter - it's wonderful and exciting that so many of you are thinking about the relationships and connections as much as I am. I can only hope that the rest of the fic will continue to be engaging, and thank you again for taking the time to let me know your opinions.
> 
> With much gratitude to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**Denerim**

The day to day rigours of ruling had always chafed on Alistair.

Oh, he could fake a smile as well as the rest of them now, he supposed, but he wasn't born for this, damnit; he hadn't arrived into the world knowing the difference between a virelai and an estampie, or which fork to use first, or how to address the son of an Orlesian lord whose mother was his granduncle's cousin twice removed.

Things had been far easier when he was just Alistair, the grey warden, not Alistair, the son of Maric Theirin, in whose veins ran the blood of conquerors and kings. _Alistair the Kind_, they called him behind his back. _Alistair the Handsome._ Not Alistair-who-could-never-darn-his-own-socks or Alistair-the-worst-cook-in-Ferelden.

It was times like these when he wished he was still invisible, wished that he could slip away from all this nonsense without a moment's thought. Let Ferelden rule herself. Let the nobility deafen their own ears with their bickering, and let Alistair-the-ordinary lay down his crown and pick up something far more useful, like a - like a sword.

Then maybe they would leave him alone.

"This is an outrage!" the Grand Cleric of Ferelden was fuming. "An affront to the Maker. A slight upon the holy men and women who carry out His good work."

"The news from South Reach is distressing," one of the banns commented. Alfstanna of Waking Sea, Alistair thought as he recognised her. "They say that Arl Bryland of South Reach has apparently converted to the cult of the so-called 'Child God'."

"Arl Bryland and those like him will suffer the Maker's wrath," the grand cleric continued in her tirade. "'For there is but one God...'"

"We all know the Chant, Your Grace," Arl Wulff said in a bored tone. "More worrying are the rumours that conversion to the cult apparently brings material prosperity. Not all men are as mindful of the Maker's teachings as we are, in the face of such temptation."

"Highever is also suffering," Teyrn Fergus interjected. "Crops have been poor three years in a row. The people are growing desperate."

"We don't need a war or some misguided crusade, Your Majesty," Arl Wulff said, slamming his fist into his open palm for emphasis. "What we need is nothing short of a miracle."

Bann Ceorlic spoke up, mopping his brow with a handkerchief as his voice echoed shakily throughout the chamber. "Perhaps we should pay homage to this Child God-"

"What?" The grand cleric drew her indignity around her like a shield. "No. Never! Speak such blasphemy again within these walls, and I will see you excommunicated for heresy," she snarled.

"Lords and Ladies, Your Grace, please!" Alistair snapped, finally losing his patience. "Ah," he said sourly as he noticed the latest arrival to the audience chamber, "it's our honoured guest."

"Guillaume Falaize, Warden-Commander of Orlais," the steward announced from the door as Guillaume walked inside, escorted by two of the palace guards.

"Your Majesty, you honour me with this audience," Guillaume said as he bowed, before striding up to the dais. He met the king's gaze, forcing himself to relax in the scrutiny of the Landsmeet. Guillaume was slightly surprised to note that Alistair was dressed from head to toe in black mourning silks; the chamberlain who had briefed him before his journey to Ferelden had neglected to inform him that the king was recently bereaved.

The assembled nobility looked at the Orlesian askance, a flurry of whispers rising up amongst them. Guillaume ignored them all, keeping his pace slow and measured as he approached the throne. His sword and dagger were bound to their sheaths in a gesture of peace, but they still drew black looks amongst the gentry, as though he would dare to strike down the king right under their noses.

"What is the meaning of this, Your Majesty?" Bann Sighard questioned angrily. "This is not a Grey Warden affair-"

"I'm afraid it is, my lord," Guillaume said smoothly, in thickly accented Fereldan. "We believe the false god to be connected in some way to the darkspawn."

"But darkspawn sightings have been dropping off for months," Bann Ceorlic protested, his hands wringing together nervously.

"Sire, may we speak in private?" Guillaume asked, with a pointed look towards Alistair.

The king narrowed his eyes, taking a swift glance around the chamber. "This session is in recess," he announced at last. "We will reconvene tomorrow morning."

"But, Your Majesty-" the grand cleric protested.

"Please, all of you…" Alistair sighed, making a dismissive gesture. "Tomorrow."

As the crowd filed out, Alistair stood, a pair of guards coming to attention and heading purposefully towards the king. "Somewhere private, hmm?" he said, with a peevish glance towards Guillaume. "Follow me."

The guards both stared daggers at the Orlesian, as if daring him to try anything, but Guillaume remained silent as he trailed after the king. The corridors in the Fereldan palace were long and draughty, the cold seeping into the stone and into one's bones. As they walked, the rooms they passed became less bare and impersonal, the addition of soft furnishings and paintings betraying a woman's touch.

Eventually, Alistair stopped, unlocking a door with a key from his belt. "You may wait outside," he said to his guards, who shifted uneasily.

"But, Your Majesty..."

"If he tries anything, I'll scream like a little girl," Alistair offered irritably. "Honestly, if the Orlesians were going to send an assassin, you probably wouldn't know about it until it was too late," he snapped, with more venom in his voice than seemed necessary. Guillaume noted the detail, filing it away in his mind for closer examination later.

The king had led them to what appeared to be a study, the walls lined with bookcases at either end. A cold, untended fireplace stood opposite to a large desk and an array of formidable looking chairs. A large painting had been hung above the fireplace, but its contents remained a mystery to Guillaume as it had been draped over with heavy swathes of black silk.

The king did not take a seat, and so Guillaume remained standing, trying to ignore the cold that was seeping into his bones. "Sire," he began. "May I speak plainly?"

"Please, please do," Alistair said dryly, with a wave of his hand.

Guillaume took a breath, steadying himself. "Is the so-called 'Child God' truly the embodiment of the fifth archdemon?"

Alistair grimaced, slowly walking away to stand before the room's windows that extended from ceiling to floor. Their installation had been an Orlesian conceit; Fereldan castles were built with consideration to both the climate and their defensibility. "The way you ask makes me suspect that you already know the answer," he replied.

"If we are to defeat this being, then we must be sure of what we are facing, Sire," Guillaume said carefully.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, staring down at the movement in the courtyard below. "Then... yes. Maybe. We can't know for sure-"

"The maleficar who is said to be with her," Guillaume continued. "Is that her mother?"

Alistair frowned, not liking the direction that the conversation was heading in. "Does it matter?"

Guillaume sighed. "It matters, Sire, because it can help us predict her next movements. Assuming that she has a certain… humanity to her, that is."

Alistair turned, choosing his next words with care. "What are you suggesting, Commander?"

"That the Child God may decide to seek out her parents, Sire. If they are still alive," he added, as an afterthought. "I am told that the maleficar travelled with you and the other two grey wardens near the end of the Blight-"

"She left us," Alistair interrupted, his eyes dark with memories. "She wasn't with us when we slew the archdemon."

Guillaume coughed politely. "Be that as it may-"

"I have no further information that could help you," Alistair snapped. "Not about the archdemon, anyway." He clasped his hands behind his back, striding over to the large maps of Ferelden that lay spread out over the desk. "Your men may remain at Amaranthine," he said, gesturing to the top right corner of the map. "I'm sure the warden-commander there will welcome you with open arms," he added dryly. "If you intend to march on Redcliffe, I want to hear of it first. As far as I'm concerned, this is a matter for the Chantry, not the Order. But I will not stop you."

Guillaume nodded. "Then there is the matter of the talking darkspawn who are rumoured to be here - specifically, the one called the Architect-"

"Your man released him, or so my reports tell me," Alistair interrupted, scowling. "He let him live. Deliberately! A darkspawn!"

"I know Gerod," Guillaume said. "He is a good man, and a good warden. He must have had good reasons for his actions."

"Maybe. But this wasn't his country. He didn't have to live with that decision; we do."

"Have you never had cause to show an enemy mercy, Sire?" Guillaume asked.

Something in Alistair's face flinched at that question, the weight of dark and unpleasant memories causing his eyes to narrow. "I assume you've read your history, Commander. It will show you that 'mercy' hasn't been one of my strong points."

Guillaume had heard about the death of Ferelden's former regent, how his blood had splattered his daughter's face in the midst of all his peers and subordinates. Though it had been the elven warden's hand that swung the blade, common theory held that it had been Maric's heir who had ordered the execution of Loghain Mac Tir.

"The Architect has not been sighted for over ten years," Alistair explained, "although I suspect you will find more recent information at Amaranthine. However, the Order's ranks are still greatly diminished in Ferelden. I doubt you'll find many men willing to follow you on a... religious crusade. But I'm sure that won't stop you from trying. In any case, Osric may have other ideas," he added dismissively, as he referred to the Fereldan warden-commander.

"Thank you, Sire, Guillaume said as he bowed deeply.

"Good luck," Alistair said. "You'll need it."

Guillaume stiffened, inclining his head at the perceived slight. "Maker watch over you," he said formally.

"May He watch over us all, Commander."

.

.

.

Alistair slumped into a chair after the Orlesian had left him.

Maker's breath. As if he didn't already have enough on his hands...

He rolled up the maps on the desk, putting them away to one side and opened a drawer. He rifled through its contents like a man possessed, spare quills and pencils and bits of parchment scattering everywhere. When it was half-emptied, he reached a hand to the back of the drawer, pressing a lever to one side. There was the creaking of metal gears, and a second compartment was revealed. Alistair reached inside it, almost warily, and pulled out an envelope, smoothing it flat on his desk. Its corners were dog-eared and worn, and when he upended it, thin, fragile pieces of paper slid out.

Alistair thumbed through the pieces absently, spreading them out over the desk. They had faded with time, but the people and places they portrayed were still recognisable.

Leliana had often whiled away the idle moments at camp in song, but in her more contemplative moments she had picked up a pen or brush to pass the time. The practice helped her learn to focus on seeing what was truly there, she had explained to Sylvanna, and not only what others wanted her to see. What had been a frivolous pastime for a noblewoman's ward later became a useful skill for a bard and a spy.

Leliana's choice of subjects had been varied. She had captured the fluid lines of the Dalish aravels; the monstrous face of a Sylvan awakening from the earth; the twisted mouth of a darkspawn emissary snarling in anger. There were other sketches, too, more personal ones; Oghren trying to drag a pair of his pants back from Thetus' jaws, with Wynne looking on disapprovingly; Zevran sparring with Sten, the difference in size between the combatants appearing almost comical; even a good likeness of Alistair himself, helping Shale to carry firewood back to camp.

The last portrait was of the two other mages, and Alistair frowned as he looked at it. The two women had been near inseparable for much of the latter part of their journey, and their... relationship had been a thing of amused speculation (and in some cases, concern) for the rest of their companions.

The mages had been unaware of the bard as she had patiently drawn their likeness, Morrigan looking amused, relaxed, even, as she reclined next to a fire. Sylvanna had been talking, Leliana capturing her animated gestures and expressions vividly. The warden was leaning forward, her hand idly brushing the inside of Morrigan's knee; the small gesture of intimacy perfectly rendered, a tiny portion of time preserved forever. Alistair thought he could detect a trace of wistfulness in the curve of a line, here and there; in the way that Morrigan's face was only half-rendered, her features indistinct... but perhaps the sentiment was only in his mind.

Alistair had tried to put the events surrounding the end of the Blight out of his mind, with little success. First there had been the clean up; Denerim had been sacked by the invading darkspawn horde, with much of the palace itself burned or destroyed. As king, Alistair had been responsible for an endless flow of refugees, displaced humans and elves and dwarves alike who all who needed to be fed and sheltered and kept from each other's throats.

Then there had been the Orlesian wardens, with their questions and probing looks and suspicions, and Gerod, who had briefly taken the role of warden-commander at Vigil's Keep, though not without much complaint from the Amaranthine nobility.

And finally, there had been Anora, who had never forgiven Alistair for the death of her father. She had softened over the years, but never forgotten; much as Alistair himself had never forgotten Loghain's crimes.

It had been a dark night when Alistair had confessed to Anora exactly what had happened near the end of the Blight. He had left the details hazy, but she had guessed the majority of it. He had never expected her to do anything about it, but that was Anora for you - never content to simply sit back and leave things be. Alistair had been furious upon learning that she had sent templars after the witch and her child, and then secretly had been almost... relieved when the men sent forth had never returned.

Anora had always known that this would come back to haunt them, and in hindsight, Alistair should have paid more attention to her instincts.

Taking out a fresh piece of parchment, Alistair laid it out on the desk, its clean emptiness staring at him accusingly. After several fits and starts, he began to write.

_Anders _

_By now, the Orlesians will have made themselves at home and you will be acquainted with their leader, a jolly fellow by name of Guillaume. They are ostensibly here to deal with our little problem at Redcliffe._

_I need you to volunteer to accompany them and keep me informed of their progress. Try not to let Guillaume do anything stupid. If the rumours are true, then you may be facing at least two mages, both of whom are sodding crazy and dangerous to boot._

_If Osric protests that he wants to join you, remind him that the journey will be grimy and uncomfortable and he'll have to make do with your cooking. If that doesn't scare him off, then nothing will._

_Maker watch over you._

_Alistair._

_PS: Don't let the Orlesian get killed. You wouldn't believe the paperwork I would need to fill out._

_PPS: Don't get yourself killed, either. We have few enough wardens as it is._

_PPPS: And leave the cat behind. He's getting too old for this sort of thing._

Alistair blotted the letter, folding it into an envelope and dripping hot wax onto the back, before pressing his signet into the seal. He wished, not for the first time, that Oghren had stayed behind in Amaranthine rather than leading a 'research' expedition into the Deep Roads. Anders was all right, for a mage; but like all mages, he had more firepower than common sense. Alistair had even less faith in most of the other wardens.

Osric had risen swiftly to the rank of warden-commander, apparently due more to his diplomatic tongue than any military experience. He was a son of a minor bann who had only been forced into the Order as an alternative to hanging; with that in mind, he had done very well for himself, taking both the title of Commander and Arl of Amaranthine. Alistair had never learned of his crimes, and had decided that he didn't want to know. That was all the Order in Ferelden had come to: a handful of thieves, murderers, rapists and apostates, each without the good grace to die at their Joining. It was the sort of thought that would have angered him, once, but now the grim reality of it just made him numb.

The last ten years had been a struggle for Ferelden and her king. Alistair had always known that ruling would be hard, but he had never known just how hard. Nothing had prepared him for the misery that seemed to be part of the package, along with the titles and the servants and the large, empty palace.

Now that Morrigan and her ill-gotten child had returned, things looked like they were going to become much, much worse.


	5. A Mother's Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**Redcliffe**

Morrigan awoke to darkness, and a reassuring, comfortable silence, broken only by the measured breaths of the woman who lay beside her. Sylvanna had struggled to find rest, tossing and turning in the grip of nightmares, until Morrigan had finally given up and brewed a posset to help her sleep. Sylvanna had been needing them more and more recently, since they had returned to Ferelden. No, before that - since their daughter had... awakened.

Sylvanna was resting peacefully now, with no trace of the visions that had wracked her, not even a crease marring her brow. Morrigan had asked her, on occasion, what she saw whilst dreaming, but her memories had been vague and incomplete. _'A song_', she had whispered once, her eyes unfocused; '_a call. Beckoning me_.'

But as to who or what the song came from, Sylvanna had no answer, even as her eyes had flicked uneasily to their daughter.

Morrigan sometimes wondered if it would have been kinder to Sylvanna if they had simply permitted her journey to end before she had ever come face to face with the child, if they had let her lay down her arms next to her faithful mabari and allowed the earth to accept her back into its embrace. Those were dark thoughts, perhaps, but mercy came in many forms, not all of them pleasant to gaze upon.

Morrigan brushed her thumb over Sylvanna's cheek, feeling a warm breath on the back of her hand, and permitted her fingers to linger across the old, white scars that stretched down her face. It had been difficult, facing Sylvanna after her rescue from Fort Drakon, knowing that she would forever be marked by the experience. It had not changed Morrigan's final intentions, but she had been forced to examine her - her feelings, for want of a better word.

Morrigan could have made a difference, could have prevented the warden from ever being captured, but it was Sylvanna's own damned fault and stubborn pride that prevented her being present when she could have been of assistance. Of this, Morrigan had no doubt, but why then had she felt so - so _guilty?_

It was when she had seen Sylvanna's broken body in the cell at Fort Drakon and felt a sudden, stabbing lance of pain that Morrigan knew for certain that this had gone too far; that those irrational feelings of warmth and attachment had snuck past her defences, ensnaring her bleeding heart as easily as a hunter trapped a hare. She had tried to ignore those feelings, tried to burn them out using nothing but the knowledge of what she was here to do - what she had to do, and when those methods had failed, she had departed.

Her absence had only been temporary, however. They had met again, in the very same castle they were occupying now, and the reunion had not been pleasant.

Morrigan shivered, and rose from the bed. After the Blight, much later, the wretched woman had sought her out, against all of Morrigan's forewarning. It was her own fault, Morrigan reasoned, wrapping her arms uneasily around herself. It was Sylvanna's fault that things had become so terribly twisted, that their lives had entwined together in such a way that made no logical sense at all and that suited no one - except, perhaps, their daughter.

After the first few days of their meeting, once Morrigan had ascertained that Sylvanna was not likely to try to kill either her or her infant, she had experimented with relaxing the glamourie over her. Morrigan had been fascinated and perhaps slightly alarmed to notice that the withdrawal of the spell changed nothing; Sylvanna had still appeared to be fixated on the baby and her welfare, as if she were drawn to the infant child. Her previous anger towards Morrigan had inexplicably dissipated, and though she searched in vain for buried murderous tendencies in an idle glance or careless gesture, Sylvanna seemed contented with her new life, almost... happy.

And that had caught Morrigan unawares; that tremulous, insistent hope growing within her that somehow, in spite of all logic or reason, they could earn a happy ending, together.

Which made no sense.

As the days turned over into months, and the months to years, Morrigan had postponed the inevitable, until one day, the creeping realisation came over her that it was too late. Somehow, her daughter had become their daughter, and her house had turned into their house; so slowly that she had been barely cognisant of the change.

Morrigan had been more than prepared to kill to protect her child - she had been resigned to that fate ever since she had detected that she was being tracked through the Frostback Mountains. She had been capable, and willing; so how had everything turn out so - so wrong? Why had she stayed her hand when she knew that, were their places reversed, no mercy would have been shown to her?

It would be kinder now, by far, to release Sylvanna from the ties that bound her to Ishantha, Morrigan considered, sweeping a stray tendril of hair back from Sylvanna's face as she stirred restlessly, before falling back into slumber. It was only cruelty or misguided pity that kept her here, trapped as surely as she had been when caged within her stone tower. Morrigan held no illusions; if she were in her right mind, she would never have partnered with Morrigan and her inhuman child; surely her sense of duty would have compelled her to die first.

Morrigan paced restlessly before striding to the room's window, opening it out to the night sky. The cool air felt comforting on her face, bringing with it the ever-present smell of half-rotting fish that she had begun to forever associate with Redcliffe; the trace of pine needles; the green scent of new grass. Far away, she could hear the calling of the wolf pack that followed in her daughter's wake, and the eerie sound tugged at her, drawing on memories of her childhood growing up in the Wilds.

It was as simple as thought itself, slipping into the all-too-familiar guise of a wolf. Morrigan flexed her changed muscles, and sniffed the air. It would feel good to feel the earth once more through her paws, to run with the pack, together with them but not part of them.

She padded down through the hallway, powerful muscles rippling smoothly beneath her fur. As she passed the arl's former bedroom, she could hear the sound of laughter, bubbling and guileless. She raised her head, seeing the light spilling out of the doorway, and slid quietly inside.

The laughter was coming from Roslyn, the arl's daughter, who was sitting on the floor with her knees clasped close to her. Ishantha was seated beside her, a low fire crackling merrily behind them. Ishantha's face was creased with a frown as she stared, perplexed, at what seemed to be a well-worn rag doll.

With her wolf's senses, more of the world came into Morrigan's awareness. Her daughter appeared as if haloed by a bright cloud of energy, a cacophony of scents that drowned out the other objects in the room. She smelled of old magic, virulent and unpredictable; of the red stone where she had dirtied her clothes, playing; of something beyond the periphery of what could be termed as 'human'. The sight and smell of her filled Morrigan's senses, an incandescent layering of textures, all concentrated into the shape of a small girl.

"Hello, Mother," Ishantha said distractedly when Morrigan came near, without looking up. She turned the doll on its head, holding it by the ankles and shaking it gently, all the while staring at it with a puzzled expression.

Roslyn shrieked with fear at Morrigan's wolfish appearance, scrambling closer to Ishantha and hiding behind her. She stared with widened eyes over the top of Ishantha's shoulder, her nails digging into the older girl.

Morrigan padded a safe distance away from the girls, her tail twitching irritably. Ishantha finally raised her eyes from her plaything, and looked across at her mother, laughing gently at Roslyn's fright. "Don't be afraid," she confided, setting down the doll. "It's only my mother."

"It's a - it's a wolf," Roslyn wailed, clearly in disbelief that the two could be one and the same.

Morrigan shook her head, with a pointed glance at her daughter.

"Oh, if you insist," Ishantha said grudgingly, and clapped her hands sharply. A servant dressed in the livery of Redcliffe stepped into the room, and stood politely at attention by the doorway. "Please escort Roslyn back to her parents," Ishantha requested, and the man nodded once.

"What if it eats me?" Roslyn squeaked, not moving from her position.

"No one's going to eat you," Ishantha remarked, amused. "I won't let them," she promised, in a confidential whisper.

Roslyn climbed to her feet, clearly torn between longing for the safety of her parents and concern for her newfound friend. "You might get eaten," she said uncertainly, with nervous glances in Morrigan's direction.

Ishantha laughed, her eyes lighting up with the absurdity of the thought. "I don't think so," she managed, between giggles.

"You should keep Mimi," Roslyn insisted, as she pushed the doll that Ishantha had been toying with into the godling's hands. "She won't let you be eaten."

Ishantha looked down in surprise. "I... thank you," she managed, after a moment's hesitation. Roslyn nodded, a shy smile emerging on her face, before she shot one last wary look at Morrigan, and permitted the servant to lead her away.

Morrigan waited until they were gone before padding over to the large armoire, effortlessly changing back into her natural form. Her human hands searched quickly through the wardrobe's drawers, finding a robe that must have belonged to the arlessa. As Morrigan dressed, her daughter sighed heavily, as if feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders.

"Come now," Morrigan said gently as she knotted a sash around her waist, taking a seat next to her daughter. "Why the forlorn face? Does life displease you so very much?"

Ishantha shook her head, her lower lip forming a pout. "No, Mother," she admitted. Her eyes were shadowed, however, as she stared at the plaything that Roslyn had left, her probing fingers poking at the doll's painted smile.

Morrigan watched as her daughter turned the doll upside down and peered at it from all angles, the frown never leaving the young girl's face.

"I was simply pondering this-" Ishantha said, stating the obvious as she gestured to the doll in her hands. "I don't understand. What is it for?" she asked, truly sounding bewildered by the simple object.

Morrigan absently smoothed the doll's dress back into place where Ishantha's careless hands had ruffled it. This was the point where she knew she ought to say something about companionship, about the games played by little girls and the secret worlds that they weaved in their minds.

Ishantha had lived an unusual childhood, though one that was generally less... demanding... than Morrigan's own. The toys she had grown up with were typically lethal to the unwary; the games she had played had involved setting traps for templars, and how to catch stray travellers by spellfire under the moonlight. Sylvanna had tried, over the years, to establish some form of normalcy for the child, but her own youth spent locked up in a tower had given her a distorted opinion of 'normal'.

"Used correctly, such dolls can become an extension of the caster's will, as an avatar for the souls you seek to influence and control," Morrigan found herself saying.

"Roslyn doesn't have a magical bone in her body," Ishantha protested. "Such a device would mean nothing to her."

Morrigan sighed. "The doll is a symbol for mage and child alike," she explained. "To young girls, it may be a companion, a friend, or it could represent the children that she herself wishes to bear, in time. In this way, the young are taught believe that their lives have little purpose, save as a broodmare, and wife to the man who would seek to dominate them."

"But you are a mother," Ishantha protested. "My mother."

"I am not chained to a husband, nor did I bear you to please such a man," Morrigan explained. "The choice to bring you into this world was my own," she said, _and mine alone,_ she thought privately.

Ishantha frowned, mulling over these words. "But you didn't raise me alone," she said eventually.

Morrigan inwardly sighed. "That was... different."

"Because Mama is a woman?" Ishantha questioned, her face confused.

"Because we are equals," Morrigan said, with perhaps more emphasis than was required. "Because Sylvanna does not seek to impose her own rules upon my life, nor to bend my will to her own," she explained. _Not that she could_.

Ishantha nodded slowly, seeming to accept the answer. "Roslyn loves this one dearly," she said as she held up the doll by pulling on both its arms. "But it can't speak, or even move. I don't understand," she complained again. "How can she love something that has no soul?"

Morrigan looked at the doll. She understood all too well the lure of such a thing to a little girl. Who else could offer her unconditional adoration? Who else would listen with eternal patience to her thoughts, her discoveries, and all her woes? Who else would be guaranteed never to leave her, never to reject her, and never to betray her?

"Her love for the doll is different from her love for her parents, or her love for you," Morrigan said, not unkindly. "In time, she will outgrow the need for such childish things."

Ishantha shook her head as she stood up, the doll dangling limply from her fingers. "I thought there must have been some sort of magic to it," she said sadly. "But it's only an ordinary toy, isn't it? Cloth and straw and thread?"

Morrigan nodded, folding her hands in her lap. "The power it holds lies only within the girl's own mind."

Ishantha walked over to the hearth and held the doll over the fire, its black button eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "If I destroy it, will she love me most?" She stared at the doll in fascination, the flames threatening to leap higher into its path. It would only need one stray spark for the fragile construct to be consumed.

Morrigan shook her head, and idly wondered if she should have prevented her daughter from being in such close contact with the arl's scion. Perhaps it was only to be expected - after all, Roslyn was the first child of roughly her own age that Ishantha had known, even if she was a snivelling and altogether unremarkable specimen at best, and hardly a suitable candidate for her daughter's companionship. But Ishantha always did have a bleeding heart for waifs and strays... undoubtedly a consequence of her father's weak blood, Morrigan thought irritably.

"Destroying it may even turn her against you," Morrigan said. "Return the doll to her. Show her that your charms are far superior, and her affection for the plaything will fade, in time."

Ishantha frowned, but withdrew the doll from its precarious position over the flames. "I will try. But it's just so ugly," she said with a shudder, as though to be ugly was the most reprehensible thing in the world. "How could she love something so ugly?"

Morrigan smiled, the light failing to reach her eyes. "People are willing to overlook all manner of flaws, in the search for love. You may use this to your advantage, if you are wise."

Ishantha bowed her head, putting the doll down beside her carefully. When she looked up, there was a hunger in her eyes, a deep and ancient yearning that unsettled even Morrigan's stalwart heart. "I want them all to love me," she insisted. "Every man, woman and child. I want them to love me so much that it hurts. I want them to dream of me, and waking, to keep my name upon their lips."

"And they will, my daughter," Morrigan said carefully. "But it will not be easy, nor will it be quick. The Chantry has held these lands in its iron fist for centuries, now. Reclaiming it for your own shall take time. Are you certain that this is how you wish to proceed? The Imperium, for example, may prove a more suitable foundation..."

"I am tired of waiting. And the Imperium is my home no longer. Those humans were weak. Prideful. It was Fereldan warriors who orchestrated my last death," she said, a flash of anger sparking in her eyes, "and so it is Fereldan hearts that I would take as my followers." At Morrigan's doubtful expression, she added brightly, "and my father is here. I would have him offer his devotion to me directly."

Morrigan gritted her teeth, and tried to calm a sudden pang of regret. Alistair's involvement in her daughter's creation had been... unfortunate, to say the least. "You may find him... unworthy, in the flesh."

"That remains to be seen. You must have thought something of him," her daughter said, a hint of uncertainty creeping into her voice.

Morrigan shook her head. There was really very little she could offer about the man that was complimentary, save that he had borne the taint in sufficient quantities, and that he had been present when Morrigan had needed him. Hardly a glowing commendation for the daughter who knew nothing of his bumbling insecurities, his self-deprecating attempts at humour or his continual inability to put one foot in front of the other without having his hand held at every step. "I simply suggest that you should be prepared for disappointment. I do not wish for you to have unrealistic expectations."

At her mother's words, Ishantha seemed to deflate a little, seeming to lose some of her glow. "I suppose we will have to see. I am tired," she complained. "I will take my rest, now."

Morrigan rose on cue, and placed a kiss upon her daughter's forehead. "Sleep well," she said.

Ishantha nodded, picking up the doll once more. She looked at it uncertainly, before turning back to her mother. "You will always love me, won't you?" she asked, in an almost plaintive tone.

Morrigan smiled, and the darkness seemed to recede from her, a little. "Of course," she said, tilting her daughter's chin to look up at her. "I am your mother, and you are the first child of my blood. None could ever take your place in my heart."

Ishantha smiled delightedly, and wrapped her arms around Morrigan. "I knew it," she said in a smug tone, and as Morrigan returned her hug, she could hear Flemeth's laughter echoing all the way from her grave.


	6. Welcome to the Vigil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> You've probably noticed that there will be some spoilers from Awakening, but if you haven't played the expansion, it hopefully won't affect your reading of this fic too much.

**Amaranthine******  
****  
Vigil's Keep sprawled untidily amongst the footholds of Amaranthine, the fortress nestled between acres of grass-covered hills. Guillaume leaned over the edge of the parapet, staring out at the rolling terrain that stretched as far as the eye could see. Below in the courtyard, the kennel master was taking in his charges fresh from a hunt, the dogs' lolling tongues hanging slackly from their mouths as they panted.

Guillaume's nose wrinkled in protest as the smell of mabari hound wafted up to him. Fereldans were an odd people. It had been the brainwave of the current warden-commander, Osric, to add a canine contingent to the keep, a decision that made little sense to him. Surely the ever-present danger of darkspawn contamination and the risk of infection to the dogs far outweighed their usefulness?

Guillaume had quickly learnt that dogs here were viewed with almost mythic reverence. Stronger and faster than most men, the mabari breed were said to have human-like intelligence. Still, nothing was likely to save them from the taint, should one bite too deeply into darkspawn flesh. It was said to be a horrible way to die, and was a fate that Guillaume wished on no one, man or beast.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the stone behind him. Without turning, Guillaume continued staring at the activity in the courtyard, and waited for the man beside him to speak.

"Not much to look at, is it?" Osric asked.

"The Keep seems well-organised, Commander," Guillaume replied politely. "A credit to you."

"Lucky for us that your countrymen didn't raze it to the ground before you left, hmm?" Osric laughed, and slapped Guillaume on the back in an overly friendly manner. "No hard feelings."

"My family were merchants," Guillaume replied, feeling more defensive than he should have allowed himself to be. "They did not fight during the occupation." He took a side-long look at his Fereldan counterpart. Osric appeared to be in his early thirties, slight of build, with a rounded, soft face and hands that oddly seemed to be free of calluses. By the time he was born, the Orlesians would have been well and truly routed, though his parents doubtless would have regaled him with the stories of King Meghren's tyrannical reign.

"You are aware that we are under strict rationing?" Osric continued. "Cook nearly had a fit when she learned that you were bringing one thousand men..."

"We will not intrude upon your hospitality for long, Commander. I have every intention that we will march towards Redcliffe once we have sufficient intelligence about the false god's resources."

"That may take some time," Osric muttered under his breath, and Guillaume pretended not to hear the insult.

"Do your wardens find themselves much plagued by darkspawn?" he asked.

"The beasts are always nearby, but sightings have been rare these days, or so I'm told," Osric said. "Of course, I Joined some time after the Blight, so I'm speaking in relative terms. I hear that our brothers and sisters in the south have it somewhat worse."

"The south?"

"Gwaren," Osric explained. "Our second base of operations, as it were. When the Blight erupted, it began in the south, so I suppose it makes sense that there are still passages underground that we still know nothing about in that area. When we find one, we collapse it, of course, but those creatures seem to have nothing better to do than to keep tunnelling... and stealing people away."

Guillaume nodded. It made sense that the Order would begin its rebuilding efforts by claiming as much land as it possibly could, and with a grey warden on the throne, there was little surprise at the ease with which they had taken over major landholdings in Ferelden. Still, there must have been some opposition from the nobility; perhaps that was why they had given the rank of warden-commander to a boy who had been born into that culture of diplomacy and compromise.

"What are your numbers like, Commander?" Guillaume asked. There was little point in skirting around the issue; Osric would see right through him in an instant. Technically, all grey wardens were on the same side, but the reality of the matter was rather more complicated.

Osric laughed cheerfully, a smile plastered on his face. "Don't waste any time, do you?" he asked. "Few enough that we would struggle to swell your ranks. Most of my boys are in Orzammar at the moment - since it's been quiet on the surface, the dwarves have agreed to let us in their tunnels for research. Although, considering who's in charge of that particular expedition, I suspect there'll be more ale-swilling than head-crunching, but it can't be helped," he said with an exaggerated sigh.

"Surely the faithful amongst you will realise that our quest is a necessary one?" Guillaume asked, one eyebrow raised. "This is, after all, an archdemon we are talking about-"

"Is it?" Osric fixed the Orlesian with a penetrating look. "I certainly haven't been dreaming of huge, corrupted dragons flying around in my sleep. Have you?"

Guillaume remained silent. His dreams - his dreams had been filled with song, half-remembered threads of melody that seemed to evoke his childhood, days of sunlight and the feeling of standing barefoot in the grass. They were as different from the nightmares during the Blight as they could be, and yet on waking, they had left him with the same uneasy feeling - that somewhere in the world, there was a wrong that had yet to be righted, a stain on the Maker's creation that he was duty-bound to snuff out.

Osric continued on. "We only have your word that this is anything more than one of those rural highland cults that crop up from time to time. The Chantry hasn't even made an official announcement, and you know how they love to hear the sound of their own voice-"

Guillaume gritted his teeth, his fingers tensing as he gripped the edge of the parapet. "Do not be a fool, Commander," he said in a low tone. "You know just as well as I do that we would not be here if this was, as you say, merely some 'highland cult'."

Osric sniffed, his nose twitching as if to take offence. "Convenient, isn't it?" he said mockingly. "Any excuse to bring Orlesians back into this country, treaty or no treaty-"

"If you Fereldans had simply killed the damned beast ten years ago as you were supposed to, none of this would be happening."

Osric laughed, quietly, his eyes gently mocking. "Ah. And there we have the crux of the matter, do we not?" he asked. "The beast seemed pretty dead to me. Its corpse stank up the whole of Denerim for days," he said, his eyes slightly glazed as if in fond remembrance. "And then the mages went and drained the body dry, or so I'm told. Amazing how much blood one can squeeze out of a giant lizard."

Guillaume remembered receiving the carefully packaged bottles, sent to every Order on Thedas for use in their Joining rituals. Even just looking at the vile substance had made him feel contaminated.

Eyes gleaming, Osric gestured invitingly towards the keep. "Come now," he smiled, "enough talk of ancient history. You should meet the rest of the crew."

.

.

.

"And here you are," Osric said, handing over a grubby piece of paper to Guillaume. Introductions had dragged on for what felt like hours, the time passing all the more slowly for the awkwardness of the proceedings. Osric may have been too young to experience Orlesian rule, but several in the Keep were not, and judging by the looks they gave Guillaume and his wardens, the experience had not endeared them to either his country or her citizens.

Guillaume himself had only been a boy when Maric had deposed King Meghren, the last Orlesian to sit on the Fereldan throne, but such details seemed inconsequential to the Vigil's soldiers. Guillaume did not care. He was not here to win friends, after all; he was here to do his duty, and then Maker willing, he would leave this wretched nation and go home.

"What is this?" he asked, unfolding the paper that Osric had handed to him.

"A list of the wardens who have volunteered to accompany you," Osric explained.

It took scarcely any time at all for Guillaume to scan the list. "There are only six names."

"And that's twice the number it took to kill the archdemon!" Osric laughed, seeing the expression on his guest's face. "Come, now. I told you that our resources are scattered. And you being Orlesian probably doesn't help things, either."

"I suppose these are the few faithful who still exist amongst you," Guillaume sniffed disapprovingly.

"Yeah, I guess you could say they're all Chant-loving Andrastians," Osric said, amused. "Oh, except for that guy," he noted as he pointed out a name on the list. "Hates the Chantry. Especially templars. I'm sure you'll get along fine, though!" he laughed, with another slap on the back.

Guillaume inwardly rolled his eyes. He could count the number of mages he had taken with him from Val Royeaux on the fingers of one hand. Whilst undeniably useful, you just never knew when one was going to snap and let loose a stray fireball or wake up one morning as an abomination.

"I'll let you see to your things," Osric offered. "I'm sure you have much to do."

"Yes," Guillaume replied automatically, "and thank you."

Osric laughed. "Don't thank me, Commander," he said over his shoulder, as he made to depart, "it's your life that you're throwing away, after all."

Guillaume shook his head. Suddenly, he felt more alone and adrift than ever, listening to the hum and fuss of the Keep's daily activities happening around him. The staff avoided his gaze as he strode through the hallways, and he could catch snippets of conversations, hastily abandoned as he ventured too close to a speaker.

"...A thousand men! Maker's breath, do they expect us to be made of food?"

"...and then he goes, 'that's what your mother said - last night!' ..."

"... I thought that all Orlesians were supposed to be handsome?"

"Gerod was a looker."

"Wasn't he just! Oh - shush, here he comes..."

Guillaume noticed a flurry of giggles subsiding as he drew near, and he awkwardly moved on, pretending not to hear the whispers behind him. It would have been better if Gerod was here; he had that easy, affable personality that people were drawn to, and by all accounts, he had been well-liked, even in Ferelden. Gerod's appointment to Weisshaupt was supposed to be only temporary, but almost a decade on and the first warden still hadn't seen fit to release him back to Orlais. Guillaume had serious doubts as to whether he would ever see the man again.

"...two sovs says you can't get into her knickers, Anders," a voice remarked to Guillaume's left.

Guillaume glanced down at the list in his hand, and across the room to where a Fereldan in mage's robes was lounging, a tankard in hand. Presumably that was the templar-hating volunteer who had been so highly recommended by Osric.

"Raise that to ten, and you're on," Anders responded to his companion. He was rather scruffy, for a mage, Guillaume thought. Most of the Orlesian mages he knew were fastidious to a fault. Anders appeared to have three days' stubble on his face, and Guillaume doubted whether his robes had been washed in a month, judging by the accumulated mud on the hem.

"You don't have ten sovereigns," his friend snorted.

"I don't need to. I plan to win this wager, so you'd better start saving your coppers," Anders warned theatrically.

His friend rolled his eyes. "You'd best get right on it, then!"

Guillaume watched with growing amusement as the mage sauntered over to a pair of women, who were quietly chatting in a corner of the room. Clearing his throat, Anders sidled up to them as they looked at him askance.

"So, ladies," Anders said, draping his arm around one of Guillaume's wardens, and then proceeded to babble in a string of broken Orlesian. It was hard to tell whether he was actually trying to pay a compliment, or whether he was subjecting the women to a detailed description of his personal hygiene habits.

The warden who had drawn the mage's attention carefully slid out of his embrace, turning to her friend with an amused look. She muttered something under her breath, her head tilted slightly to indicate Anders as the subject of her comment, and made a dismissive gesture.

"_Fereldans_," her friend agreed, her lip curled in derision.

Anders seemed prepared to give his linguistic talents another try, but then to Guillaume's surprise, a rather plump, tabby ginger cat slunk out from within the folds of Anders' robe. The animal confidently padded over to the woman who had rejected his owner, curling itself around her legs and rubbing its whiskered cheeks across the tops of her boots.

"Ser Pounce-a-lot!" Anders exclaimed in mock-dismay. "These nice ladies don't wish to catch your Fereldan fleas!"

The demeanour of the woman that Anders was trying to speak to changed almost instantly, and she knelt down to peruse the cat. "_You're quite cute_," the warden murmured as she fussed over the animal, who was now purring contentedly. "_I may have a treat for you.._." she said, digging around in her pockets.

"Yours?" the other Orlesian asked, not deigning herself to pet the cat.

Anders nodded, beaming proudly. "Raised him from a kitten, poor little fellow. He's seen more darkspawn action than you can poke a stick at!"

The woman frowned, as if turning this odd Fereldan phrasing over in her mind. The other warden, in the meantime, had picked up the cat, tickling his tummy as she cradled him in her arms.

"_Clarisse, you'll catch some filthy Fereldan disease_," her friend warned.

"_I always wanted a cat_," Clarisse remarked as she stroked the animal, who leant into her hands happily.

Anders watched their exchange, clearly unable to understand the content of their words but seizing upon Clarisse's apparent love for animals. "Ser Pounce-a-lot must like you a great deal. He doesn't purr for anyone, you know," he confided to her with a wink.

Guillaume shook his head as he watched his wardens (warden, he corrected himself) flirting with the mage. Her friend stalked away, clearly irate at Clarisse's choice in company. Guillaume was forced to agree with her. Peace between their nations was all very good and well, but it did not mean that they needed to be quite so friendly.

"Anders, a word," Guillaume said curtly, nodding towards the mage.

"I'll see you later," Anders promised Clarisse, who giggled before waving goodbye to his cat. Guillaume tried to suppress a wave of nausea at the sickening display. Who knew that having a feline companion was so advantageous when meeting women?

Anders had to jog for a stretch to catch up with the warden-commander, with his cat trailing along behind him at a more leisurely pace. Guillaume wondered how it managed to live in peace with so many dogs at the Keep, and then remembered that its master was a spell-slinging darkspawn slayer. Presumably that in itself posed a whole other set of problems.

"Tough crowd, wasn't it?" Anders remarked cheerfully. "You'd think after Gerod that most people would have warmed to the idea of having more of you around. Old prejudices die hard, I guess."

"It does not concern me," Guillaume said almost instantly. "I understand why people are angry. It changes nothing."

"No?" Anders' brow quirked upwards. "You know, they softened up to Gerod pretty quickly. I'm sure once you prove that you're not here to, you know, steal our women and raze our villages again-"

"Look," Guillaume stopped walking abruptly, so that Anders had to stumble back a step to avoid bumping into him. "Why did you volunteer? You hardly seem the kind to be a regular Chantry attendee, and no one here appears to be concerned that this is actually the archdemon reborn, so I doubt you are doing this from a sense of duty. What is your - your purpose?"

"Me?" Anders looked wounded. "Can't I be in it for the chance to impress girls and to shoot lightning at fools?" At the sceptical look on Guillaume's face, he relented with a shrug. "Well, I guess you would have figured it out sooner or later," he reasoned. "The king wants me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don't pillage any hapless estates on your way to Redcliffe-"

"One mage," Guillaume said with narrowed eyes, "he only sent one mage to spy on us?"

"And Ser Pounce-a-lot," Anders reminded him. "He counts for at least half a mage, or ten templars, surely."

Guillaume sighed. Clearly, he wasn't going to get anywhere with this idiot. "Fine. Report back as you must. His Majesty will not find anything untoward about our actions."

"And that's fine with me," Anders said. "I just want to go out, kill some people, take their stuff, and come home to a nice warm meal and perhaps that lovely warden of yours with the wonderful eyes... what was her name again? Such a friendly girl-"

Guillaume ground his teeth together, aware that Anders was being obnoxious just to stir him. "Clarisse."

"Ah." Anders nodded sagely. "If they're all that comely in Orlais, Commander, it's a wonder you ever have any time left to kill darkspawn! Do you think I could apply for a transfer? You know, or an exchange? Maybe you could leave one of your men here, and I could come back with you to Val Royeaux - it'd be great, because-"

"We will discuss this later."

"As you like," Anders said, before concluding their discussion with a bow and a flourish. "Goodnight, Commander," he said as he scooped up his cat, who clung to his arms with a protesting meow. Then, as if he couldn't become more irritating, the man whistled as he walked away. Maddening!

Guillaume was still frowning when he reached his quarters, pulling the door shut behind him with a grateful clang. Osric had already written to the wardens in Gwaren, requesting a detailed report on the false god who seemed to be focusing her activities in the south. It was hard to separate fact from fiction, however - the stories arising from that region were strange and dark, indeed. Not even the worst of blood magic rivalled the rumours they had heard - ritual sacrifice of babies, the desecration of Chantries, the sinister and perverted torture of holy sisters and virtuous Andrastians. There were unsettling tales of sabbaths at midnight, of honest people turning upon their friends and family, and slaughtering one another until the streets ran red with blood...

A candle sitting on the desk had already been lit, illuminating a large portion of the small room. In its light, Guillaume found an envelope waiting for him, thoughtfully placed under a paperweight on the desk. Retrieving it, he was unsurprised to find the seal and colours of the Divine on the back of the well-worn paper. He brought the envelope to his nose and inhaled, imagining that he was breathing in the scent of roses and violets, of Val Royeaux in the spring. He cracked the seal with trepidation, the wax splintering and breaking off in small pieces on his desk.

The missive inside was so brief that it scarcely seemed to warrant the effort taken to send it all the way to Ferelden, composed in an even and delicate italic hand.

_A storm is coming. Be ready._

_\- A._

.

.

.

Anders was in an unusually good mood. He kicked off his boots, slumping down onto his bed without even bothering to remove his socks. Ser Pounce-a-lot jumped onto the mattress, digging his claws into the coverlet and kneading it evenly with his front paws.

"Well done," Anders said, and tossed a piece of dried meat to his cat. "Who's a clever, clever kitty?"

After devouring the treat, Ser Pounce-a-lot sat back on his haunches and began to clean his face fastidiously, looking for all the world as if he were preening.

Anders folded his hands beneath his head, staring up into the rafters. Oh, the day had been interesting, indeed. He reached out a hand absently when his cat climbed close to his face, and Ser Pounce-a-lot responded to his attentions with a gentle, rolling purr.

"I don't care what that silly king says," Anders said as he tickled the cat behind his ears, "you're not too old to come on adventures or seduce women, are you?"

Ser Pounce-a-lot responded by butting his head against Anders' cheek, his whiskers tickling the end of the warden's nose. Anders sneezed, the cat bounding off the bed as he sat up. "All right," he grumbled, "I suppose I probably owe him a letter."

Anders grudgingly came to his feet, and rifled through his possessions, searching for ink and paper. Finding himself victorious, he sank into a chair and began to scrawl a response.

_Your Majesty_ _  
_

_You honour me with this mission. Truly, there is nothing I love more than babysitting virtuous Orlesian generals. Remind me why I Joined the Order again?___  
__  
_Don't worry about Osric, he's not going anywhere. Six of us are heading down. Guillaume is apparently waiting for a message to get back from Gwaren, but there must be more to it than that. I can smell self-righteousness a mile away.___  
__  
_Will write again once we head off to Redcliffe. Did you know that Orlesian women are actually rather attractive? Well of course you would; Celene sends you bards all the time, doesn't she? (Could you ask her to send one to the Vigil? Some light music would be welcomed around here. It would drown out the sound of the dogs.)___  
__  
_I presume you don't have a problem with us dispatching this Child God, if it comes to that. I only ask because Gerod had some strange ideas about killing darkspawn (or not killing them, really.) Orlesians, I tell you.___  
__  
_Stay safe.___  
__  
_Anders___  
__  
_PS: Ser Pounce-a-lot is __not__ too old! I think y__ou owe him an apology.___  
__  
As Anders folded up his reply, his cat landed on the desk, scattering quills and spilling droplets of ink onto the underside of his letter. "Bad kitty," Anders scolded, holding the letter up to the light to ascertain the damage. Well - it was still readable. Good enough, right?

Slipping the message into an envelope, Anders sealed the missive and slid it into a pocket of his robes, out of reach of the prying claws of his cat. Things were looking up - beautiful women, chances to provoke a virtuous Andrastian, interesting people to meet (and hurl lightning at) - what wasn't there to like?

"You and I are going to go far, Ser Pounce-a-lot," Anders declared, scratching the cat under his chin. Ser Pounce-a-lot meowed agreeably, his eyes closed in pleasure, and nudged Anders' knuckles with his face. "And you are going to charm many more beautiful women for me, aren't you?" he cooed.

Ser Pounce-a-lot appeared to shrug and stalked away, leaping back onto the bed and curling up at the base of the mattress. He closed his eyes and seemed to go to sleep almost instantly, although his tail twitched back and forth as he settled his head onto his paws.

Anders undressed and turned back the covers, unable to wipe a grin from his face. Clarisse - now there was a beauty. Tall, with chestnut-brown, glossy hair and a pair of pert, shapely breasts... she was all he had dreamed of, and more. And she had winked at him. Or was it a blink? No, it had definitely been a coy sign of affection. Before Summerday had come and gone, his wager would be won; Anders was sure of it.

Ser Pounce-a-lot yawned irritably and rolled onto his side as the mattress sagged under Anders' weight, the mage's feet coming close to almost kicking him off the bed. As the cat cracked open one curious eye, it seemed clear to him that things were definitely looking up.


	7. Echoes from the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This ended up being so long that I had to split it into two parts. Contains vague references to rape.
> 
> With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**Redcliffe**

Ishantha was bored.

It was obvious in the downcast curve of her eyelids, and the way her fingers tapped silently across the arm of the too-large chair upon which she was curled. She cradled her chin with one hand, staring solemnly at the messenger standing before her. The poor man stammered over his words, sensing her ennui, and tried to hasten his speech.

"Of course, Arl Bryland sends his deepest regrets that he could not attend in person-"

A frown creased Ishantha's brow, and she straightened in her chair. "I would like to see him, before autumn is here. It has been months already," she said decisively, glancing sideways at her mother for confirmation, "hasn't it?"

"Tell the arl he cannot expect his land to prosper if he does not render an appropriate tribute," Morrigan informed the messenger, appearing regal in a pair of dark crimson robes. The material clung to her body in opulent folds, exposing her pale shoulders and a deep décolleté. Sylvanna thought she looked every inch the royal adviser. It seemed Leliana had been right - red suited Morrigan very well.

"The silks... spices, gold," the messenger went on, his voice betraying his nervousness, "they do not please You?"

"They are very nice," Ishantha admitted. "The colours are very pretty. But I would prefer Arl Bryland to attend me himself."

The messenger bowed his head in acquiescence. "Yes... yes, of course," he stammered. "I will tell him at once."

"Please do," Ishantha said, bored again. She waved him off, and the man gratefully backed away until he had left the audience room.

The next visitors arrived: a human woman and an elven man. They looked darker than most Fereldans, and the cut of their clothes appeared odd to Sylvanna's eyes.

"So it is true," the woman breathed as she gazed upon Ishantha, with such reverence that it disturbed Sylvanna. "You have returned to us."

The couple fell to their knees in deep veneration, their foreheads against the ground. Ishantha was touched by the display, Sylvanna could tell; her previously indifferent expression replaced by something bordering upon benevolent affection.

"Rise." Ishantha stepped from her chair, her frame overshadowed by the petitioners as they came to their feet. "You are from the Imperium," she noted, walking between them,.

"Yes," the woman said, not even daring to breathe when Ishantha's eyes turned back towards her. "When we heard of Your ascension-"

"-we had to come," the man continued. "To pay homage to You in person."

The woman sank once more to her knees, and held a wooden box out to Ishantha in both hands. "We were unable to bring much with us, when we left Tevinter," she apologised. "This is all that remains."

The box must have been ancient, the wood almost black with age. Ishantha opened it slowly, her eyes widening as she raised the lid. She reached down into the box, taking out a carved flute, and held the instrument up to the light, marks and scratches showing up against the bone.

"It's lovely," she said in wonderment, her voice cracking on the words. She placed her fingers over the narrow holes whittled along the flute's length, raising it half-way to her lips, before she stopped and seemed to think better of it. "I remember-" she began, and then broke off, turning her attention back to the expectant faces surrounding her. "You must wish a boon for this, surely," she said.

The elf shook his head. "We only wish to see You recover Your former glory," he insisted. "Our ancestors worshipped You when You were trapped beneath the earth. To finally gaze upon You in the flesh..." he trailed off, the weight of his thoughts proving to be too much for him to bear.

"I will bless you," Ishantha said firmly. "And you will spread the truth of my return." She replaced the flute into its box and handed it to Morrigan, who glanced at it dubiously before setting it down next to the other gifts and tributes they had received.

The two Tevinters knelt before her, and Ishantha gently reached her hands out to brush their foreheads. A glow surrounded them, warm and golden, and Sylvanna closed her eyes, feeling the echoes of it wash over her, warming her all the way to her toes.

"Arise," Ishantha said gently, and the two followers came shakily to their feet. The glow subsided from them, the air settling back into normalcy.

"We will never forget this," the woman promised her. "Our children's children will learn of you."

Ishantha merely nodded, smiling and the petitioners walked out as though in a daze, as Morrigan helped her daughter back into her seat. Ishantha closed her eyes and sank back into the chair, seemingly exhausted. Her mother brushed her hair tenderly back from her face.

"There is one more," Morrigan warned her.

The next petitioner to enter the room did so alone. She walked with a gentle sway to her step, a scarf draped loosely over her hair and shoulders. She stopped a few paces away from Ishantha, and lowered the scarf from her head.

"So it's true," she said breathlessly. "You have returned."

This simple statement was not at all out of place, except for the fact that the woman was addressing Sylvanna, and not her daughter.

Ishantha was not pleased.

"Do I... know you?" Sylvanna asked uncertainly.

The woman walked towards her, taking both of her hands. "I'm Valena," she said plaintively. "Owen's daughter."

Sylvanna glanced up, searching her face. She remembered the smell of alcohol, sharp and pungent; the knot of frustration as she bargained with the blacksmith, trading his services for the promise of searching for his daughter. Valena had been huddling in a back room, hemmed in by scores of reanimated corpses.

"How is your father?" she asked, without thinking further.

"What do you want?" Morrigan interjected, her eyes narrowed.

Valena's eyes glanced between the Child God and her mother, and she licked her lips nervously.

"I only wished to see the warden again," she said.

Sylvanna took Valena's arm and strode towards the far end of the room, away from its other occupants. "Is something wrong? Are you in any trouble?"

Valena shook her head, the sting of tears in her eyes. "It - it's my father," she confessed. "He had an accident yesterday - he was forging, and... and he was burned," she sobbed, her head in her hands.

"Have you tried praying?" Sylvanna began uncertainly.

"I have," Valena said, raising her tear-stained eyes. "But my father is a stubborn man. He... does not take to change well," she added in a whisper, her gaze turning fearfully to the back of the room, where Ishantha was still seated. "I just thought - I remembered they said you were a healer, and-"

"I will come with you to see him," Sylvanna promised. "Would you wait outside a moment?"

Valena nodded, her eyes lighting up with hope. "Thank you, Grey Warden. I knew you would help us."

Sylvanna gave her a small smile. She walked back to her daughter, Ishantha fixing her with a questioning look as she approached.

"She could have asked me for help," Ishantha said, a touch sulkily. "I suppose you will be off now to play the hero?"

"Her father is gravely injured," Sylvanna said. "I'm not sure how long I will be absent."

Morrigan laughed quietly, her eyes cold. "I can only hope that not all of your former acquaintances knock upon our doors, wishing for a further boon. We would remain here for perpetuity, if that were the case."

"There really weren't that many."

"Oh?" Morrigan quirked one eyebrow. "I can count several in Redcliffe alone," she said, marking them off on her fingers. "The arlessa and her brother. The drunkard blacksmith and his daughter. The slattern from the inn. The former arl and his son. A dead missionary's wife. Shall I continue?" she asked dryly. "My one great surprise was that we did not postpone our mission to rescue kittens out of trees."

Sylvanna managed a nervous laugh. "There was that demon cat with Shale. Does she count?"

Morrigan did not deign to answer.

"You should tell me these stories some day, Mama," Ishantha said curiously. "Mother certainly never spoke of them."

Morrigan sighed, aggrieved. "I thought them inconsequential. A series of trivialities upon the path of the great journey of how Sylvanna the Grey Warden united the races of Ferelden and ended the fifth Blight," she said, her words dripping with sarcasm.

Sylvanna coloured. "Valena is waiting for me," she said quietly, and fled the room, feeling the burning eyes of the other two upon her back as she departed.

.

.

.

"He should sleep through the night," Sylvanna said tiredly, washing her hands in a basin. The water turned a murky red as she scrubbed her fingers, and Valena gratefully held out a cloth for her to dry her hands.

"He looks much better," Valena said, greatly relieved. "Thank you again - I don't know how to repay you-"

Sylvanna smiled, brushing limp tendrils of hair out of her face. "It's all right," she said gently. "Just..." she sighed, rubbing her bloodshot eyes. Owen's injuries had been serious, but certainly nothing she had not seen before. Alistair and Sten had often endured worse burns, from rage demons or the occasional angry drake. Sylvanna was sorely out of practice. Ishantha never seemed to suffer the most minor of injuries, even as a very young child, and if an accident ever befell Morrigan, then Sylvanna was never made aware of it.

"Just don't let anyone hear of his beliefs," Sylvanna pleaded. "Not anyone."

"I understand," Valena said, biting her lip. "He is stubborn, though. I've begged him to give up the business; told him he's too old for it. Maybe he'll listen to me now."

"Make him listen," Sylvanna insisted, leaning closer. "It's for his own safety."

Valena's gaze wandered over to the body of her sleeping father, and she nodded, once. "I will try," she said softly.

Sylvanna pinched the bridge of her nose, and she bent to gather her things. She passed a small flask to Valena, and the woman looked at it curiously. "It will help him with the pain," Sylvanna explained.

"Thank you," Valena repeated as she took the vial. "Will you be safe?"

"Safe?"

Valena glanced at the door as if expecting someone to burst in and interrupt. "The Chantry will not stand by idly," she said in a low tone. "And - well - we've heard rumours. From the castle."

Sylvanna looked puzzled for a moment, and then she laughed nervously, relieved. "I'm not in any danger," she said reassuringly. "For all her flaws, my daughter is a good person. She doesn't want to hurt anyone," she insisted, and then wondered if she was trying more to convince Valena or to convince herself.

"Just... be careful."

"I will," Sylvanna promised.

.

.

.

It was late when Sylvanna returned to the castle, and it had begun to rain - fine, misty droplets that stuck to the skin and sent chills up one's spine. Sylvanna pulled her hood low over her head and hurried along, shivering under her cloak.

Fear of the dark was a lingering childhood dread that she had struggled to conceal all the way from Ostagar to Denerim. Perhaps it was due to having spent most of her life in a sheltered tower, surrounded at all times by warm fires and inviting lights, and torches enchanted to glow without pause by the Formari. Whatever the reason, the night for Sylvanna was filled with secrets; strange sounds and distant voices; a forbidding realm whose language was dark and unfamiliar.

"Warden," a guard welcomed her as she crossed the bailey, heading up the steps to the main hall of the castle. "Arl Teagan has requested an audience with you," he said.

"With me?" Sylvanna asked dubiously. "Surely he should be speaking with my daughter-"

The guard shook his head. "He asked for you by name, M'Lady," he said.

Sylvanna frowned, but nodded to the guard. "Thank you. I will see him momentarily."

The guard stood aside to let her pass, and Sylvanna went up to her room, longing to be free of her wet clothes. She noticed that it was empty when she arrived, which was not particularly unusual. Morrigan also carried her own demons from childhood, though she would never admit it. One of those was a fierce hatred of being confined, and she often took the form of a wolf or a raven to escape the walls of the castle and the presence of the many people within.

Sylvanna slipped off her wet garments, laying them out before the fire to dry. Shivering, she began to rifle through a chest, searching for something suitable to wear. She held up a dress thoughtfully, wondering if it was conservative enough for meeting the arl.

A creaking noise sounded behind her, and Sylvanna turned abruptly with a gasp, the dress clutched protectively to her chest for modesty. "Morrigan," she stammered, seeing the witch close the door behind her with one hand. "I didn't hear you come in-"

"Clearly not," Morrigan said dryly. "Were I intending to take your life, you would now be in a most precarious position, indeed." She was still clothed in crimson silk, the colour almost luminous in the glow of the fire.

Sylvanna swallowed, not loosing her grip on the dress. Her gaze followed Morrigan as she walked around the room, finally stopping to take a seat upon the bed.

"How fares he?" Morrigan asked, unexpectedly. It took Sylvanna a full moment to realise that she was speaking of Owen.

"As well as can be expected. He should recover full use of his arm. Valena is tending to him, poor girl."

Morrigan nodded, and beckoned with a slow, languorous curl of her fingers. "You are shivering," she noted. "Come closer to the fire."

Sylvanna hovered uncertainly, the dress still clutched halfway to her chin. Should she put it on? And then there was the matter of Teagan - surely she should not keep the poor man waiting?

"Leave it," Morrigan suggested.

Sylvanna let the dress drop. Her skin instantly goose-pimpled in the cool spring air, and she resisted the impulse to wrap her arms around herself before walking towards the bed, uncomfortably conscious of Morrigan's unwavering gaze. It was warmer at this end of the room - though the heat flushing to Sylvanna's face had little to do with the fire.

Morrigan guided her to climb on to the bed, and Sylvanna rolled on to her stomach, feeling the cool linen of the pillow against her face. Morrigan's fingers traced lightly down the curve of her spine, the gesture sending shivers across her skin. As she relaxed with a sigh, Morrigan shifted her weight forwards and began to rub the muscles in her shoulders and down her back, releasing the tension that had been stored over days of chasing after a near-omnipotent nine-year-old.

Sylvanna closed her eyes, resting her head on her arms and thought about the feeling of silk from Morrigan's sleeves brushing her bare skin. "What have I done to deserve this?" she murmured drowsily, already half asleep.

Morrigan said nothing for a time, her hands continuing to rhythmically prod and knead. "Nothing," she said eventually. "'Tis I who must make amends."

Sylvanna remained silent, but she was fully alert now, her eyes wide open.

"My words to you were needlessly harsh," Morrigan continued. "And for that, I apologise."

Sylvanna turned her head to the side, tensing as though to rise. "Morrigan, you don't have to-"

"No - allow me to continue. We had an arrangement, you and I," Morrigan said, as she traced lazy spirals with her fingertips. Her voice was calming as she slowed her words, choosing each phrase with care. Sylvanna closed her eyes once more, and allowed herself to sink back into the warm comfort of the bed.

"I spoke out of turn," Morrigan said. "For that, I wish to make reparations."

Sylvanna leant her head to the side as Morrigan returned to her massage, her strong fingers capably seeking out points of tension and relieving them. They had mutually decided, some time ago, to offer each other a blanket amnesty on all that had happened during the time of the Blight, from the moment Sylvanna had first met Morrigan right up until the birth of her child. Morrigan would forgive, or at least ignore the fact that Sylvanna had very nearly burned her to death, and Sylvanna...

She had never forgotten the look on Alistair's face when she had found him in the castle chapel, and told him what had transpired. It was there, at the back of her mind when she looked into the eyes of her daughter, and it was there when she felt Morrigan's mouth upon her own. Sometimes she wondered if the witch had kissed him in this way; if she had made it... easy for him.

Sylvanna tensed. "It's all right," she said, exhaling. "I forgive you."

It was true, strangely enough. Sylvanna had never considered herself to be the sort who would claim that the ends justified the means, but... Ishantha was so perfect, so golden. Surely, given the circumstances, that had to count for something?

"You seem troubled," Morrigan noted, her hand warm against the back of Sylvanna's thigh. "What worries you?"

Sylvanna turned to look at Morrigan, staring at her directly. "Did you kiss him?" she asked quietly. She searched her eyes, seeing a flash of pain cross Morrigan's features. The expression was so quickly gone, she almost wondered if she had imagined it.

"Not like this," Morrigan promised, and leant in, cupping Sylvanna's face with both her hands. The touch of her lips was incredibly warm, almost burning; contrasting with the texture of her silk gown as she rested her weight against Sylvanna's body.

As they parted, Morrigan searched her face. Sylvanna could see herself mirrored in her eyes, her reflection appearing pale and drawn.

"Did you hurt him?" Sylvanna asked.

Morrigan drew back with a sharp intake of breath, but did not leave. "No."

Sylvanna could not discern whether she was lying; after all, she had been blissfully ignorant of Morrigan's true intentions during the Blight, right until the very end. The final truth of the affair laid with another, and Sylvanna doubted very much that she would ever know the heart of the matter from him.

Morrigan straightened, and loosened the fine pins that bound her hair. It tumbled down her shoulders, as dark and glossy as a raven's wing, the ends of it reaching to just below her waist. Setting the pins aside, she began to unclasp the fastenings of her dress, pausing after each tiny hook. Sylvanna remained silent, watching Morrigan's dexterous fingers as they made light work of the garment. She exposed first one creamy shoulder, and then the other as she slipped out of her sleeves, the gown pooling around her hips.

She was unexpectedly naked under the heavy outer layer of silk, and the light played warmly over her bare skin, revealing the gentle swell of her breasts, the narrow taper of her waist curving down to the generous line of her hips. Taking one of Sylvanna's hands, Morrigan placed it around her own waist, and Sylvanna drew her close.

They kissed with tender warmth, Morrigan balancing her weight with one hand on the bed, the other tangled in the warden's hair, holding her in place. Sylvanna held her eyes wide open, unable to scrub from her mind the image of what they would look like if Alistair were in her place. She was reminded, uncomfortably, that aside from an allegedly awkward expedition with Leliana and Oghren to The Pearl, Alistair had been innocent of love...

"I can't," Sylvanna gasped. Morrigan subtly shifted her weight, and Sylvanna released her from her grasp, slipping out from her embrace.

Morrigan caught her by the wrist as she made to leave the bed, and Sylvanna stopped in her tracks. Her hands were trembling. "Morrigan-"

"Wait. Please." There was a quality to Morrigan's voice that made her pause, hovering on the edge of uncertainty. Morrigan used that moment to draw her back in, encircling her waist with her free arm. "Forget him," Morrigan suggested, pushing Sylvanna back against the pillows, her hands placed squarely against her shoulders.

Morrigan bent her lips to the hollow of Sylvanna's neck, and she closed her eyes languidly as she felt the flutter of Morrigan's kisses tracing across the line of her collarbone and down between her breasts. She reached down and stroked Morrigan's hair, letting it sift through her fingers like heavy strands of silk. Morrigan raised her head, and Sylvanna pushed her over until she was straddling her lover, grabbing both of her wrists in her hands and pressing them into the mattress to either side of her head. She felt her tense under her grip, but her captive made no move to escape, instead leaning hungrily towards Sylvanna as if she would swallow her whole. Sylvanna closed her eyes as they kissed, feeling the press of her bare breasts upon Morrigan's, the heat rising from her body and the warmth within her mouth.

If Sylvanna thought of Alistair now, the guilt would consume her until there was nothing left but an endless ocean of regret.

So she thought instead of the softness of Morrigan's lips, the yielding smooth texture of her skin as Sylvanna pressed kisses against the hollow of her neck. She draped her hands upon Morrigan's shoulders and traced downwards, the electric charge of magic sparking in the wake of her touch. Morrigan squirmed, her hair falling in a muddled tangle over her bare skin. Sylvanna gently swept it aside, her fingertips trailing energy, and bent her mouth to the sweet peak of Morrigan's breasts. Sylvanna paused in her exploration and crept upwards, until she could reach the delicate skin of Morrigan's throat with her lips and her tongue.

Sylvanna raised her head for a moment, catching her lover's eye. Morrigan's breath caught in her throat, and she paused, her lips half-parted as if to speak.

"No," Sylvanna said clearly, and broke free of Morrigan's grasp. She rolled Morrigan over so that the witch's face pressed into the pillows, her hands braced against the mattress to prevent Sylvanna pushing her down further.

Sylvanna draped her body on top, her hand snaking in under Morrigan's hip to rest against the skin of her belly. Hers was a body that had carried a child to term, that had nursed it throughout infancy. Sylvanna had always thought her beautiful, and even after the Blight, that fact had not changed.

Morrigan shifted, permitting her access as Sylvanna pressed her knee between Morrigan's legs. There was a sigh, perhaps; an acceptance of the inescapability of her position as Sylvanna curved her fingers and began to gently rub, her other hand reaching down and then within until her lover was being cradled from either side.

Sylvanna leaned her head against Morrigan's shoulder blades, and breathed in the warm scent of her hair.

When the warden was very small - well before the templars and the Circle - she had come across a young sparrow, fallen in the shade of the _vhenadahl _tree. She had gathered it carefully, drawn by its plaintive crying, and cradled its tiny form within the shelter of her hands, feeling the fragile trembling of its warm body against her palms.

(Later, Jarlath had knocked it from her grasp and made her watch as he stomped on it with his bare feet. Sylvanna had screamed at the sound of its bones snapping, and then cried, but it had been far too late for the tiny creature, which had become only a smear on the underside of Jarlath's dirty foot.)

As she felt Morrigan's pulse through her skin, quickening according to the play of her fingers, she was reminded of that tiny body, of how its heartbeat had wavered within her hands. Morrigan trembled, and Sylvanna held her tighter until she could feel the witch's pulse rise and rise like the tenuous beating of fragile wings.

.

.

.

Sylvanna watched the flickering dance of the fire, her eyes blank as she heard an occasional crackling breaking the silence. Morrigan's arms encircled her from behind, their bodies curving together in a perfect arc as she pressed her lips into the nape of Sylvanna's neck, her breath warm against her skin.

Morrigan traced her fingers with lingering slowness down the side of her hip. Sylvanna grabbed her hand, covering it with her own and stopping it before it could venture any further.

"Just hold me," Sylvanna instructed, without turning. She wasn't sure how she would feel, or what she would do if she had to look into Morrigan's face and see her guilt reflected back at her. She exhaled, slowly, and closed her eyes, her heartbeat slowing as her breathing became deep and even.

In her dreams that night, something fragile came to life, gathered its wings, and took flight.


	8. The Libertarian Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: OMG GUYS! March 2011! That was really soon, wasn't it?
> 
> With many thanks to my ever-patient beta, oneplusme, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> And also thanks to all of you for reading along, with a special thank you to those who have left comments. I'm always curious to know what you're thinking :-)

**Denerim**

The King of Ferelden was never alone. This was one of the painful facts that Alistair had learned early on in his reign, shortly after 'the king is incapable of dressing himself without assistance' and 'the Remigold is not an appropriate dance at court'.

Even as he slept, he was always aware of the presence of heavily armed guards waiting outside his chambers, ready to rush in if they even suspected that the slightest thing was amiss. Everyone was so very... concerned for him. Did His Majesty need his fluffy socks? Was he too warm? Too cold?

It was enough to make him ill, merely thinking about it.

And then there were the women.

Dear Maker, the women.

He was not like Cailan, he had emphatically told Anora after the three-millionth Orlesian diplomat had all but thrown herself in his lap. Their marriage may have been made for the good of Ferelden, but that did not make his vows any less real, or any less binding in the sight of the Maker. He may have been many things, but Alistair Theirin was not an oath-breaker.

Alistair thought that must have been the first time he had ever seen Anora cry.

The memory of it now gave him pause, and he faltered a step, the heels of his boots digging deep grooves in the dirt as he was pushed back by a flurry of blows from his sparring partner. The force of them reverberated through his shield, sending a familiar, sweet ache across his left arm and into his shoulder.

It was not the same as the dirty, frantic task of dispatching darkspawn, or the disheartening business of dealing with traitors and spies, but...

It was close enough.

In the midst of the sparring ring, even surrounded as he was by scores of pages, spectating knights and an ever-vigilant healer, was the only time that the king felt truly and completely on his own. Those scarce moments of freedom were often the only thing that kept him sane, made him - well, him, and not a poor imitation of his much lauded father.

(Perhaps it was no wonder that Cailan had surrounded himself with sycophants and mistresses to soothe his insecurities. He had not helped to end a Blight by the time he took the throne; he had not been a hero in his own right. Vague resentment over Cailan having been born to this role and then leaving his bastard half-brother with the burden of filling his shoes had gradually turned to pity over the years, when Alistair ever thought of him at all.)

"Is that it?" he asked, grinning. The smile did not slip from his face as Bann Alfstanna brought her sword up in a vicious arc, circling around towards his right side. He caught the impact of it on the flat of his blade, the grinding sound of metal ringing through the air. It was his turn to take the offence now, and he did so with an eager vehemence. Alfstanna was light enough on her feet, but he could tell that she was tiring. The heavy sword she held firmly with both hands was just slightly too large for her; most likely she had exchanged her usual weapon for fear of incurring unnecessary damage to it. One gentle nudge with his shield in the right position, and she would probably overbalance.

_"For such a large man, he certainly has a special... grace to him, does he not? One wonders how well that flexibility and endurance could be employed in the practice of... other activities."_

The echo of the memory startled Alistair, and his concentration slipped for a moment. That was all Alfstanna needed to recover, landing a solid blow landing painfully across the curve of his shield and forcing him to manoeuvre back a step. He saw a trickle of sweat sliding down her face, and she readjusted her grip on her sword, her gauntleted hands shining silver in the sunlight.

"_You're wasting your time, Zevran. That sort of thing goes right over his head. You may as well be trying to chat up the __grand cleric__, for all the good it will do you."_

"_My dear __warden__, what makes you think that I have not? In any case, I merely see it as my duty to enlighten the inexperienced. Such staunch purity is not healthy in a young man with such a handsome face. It is a shameful waste."_

"Your Majesty," Alfstanna called out, sensing his hesitation, "should we call it a draw?"

"Just a little longer," Alistair protested, shifting the weight of the shield on his arm. To his relief, Alfstanna frowned, but readied her weapon for another sally.

"_Well, I wish you wouldn't tease him so much. Between you and Morrigan and Eamon and the archdemon, I think he probably has more than enough distractions, don't you think?"_

"_And you do not consider yourself a distraction? Tsk, tsk, my dear. Have you not seen the way he devours you with those fine, manly eyes, nor the way he leaps to your defence in battle?"_

"_That's ridiculous. You're imagining things."_

"_I have often wondered why you do not return his advances. If it is merely an issue of compatibility that troubles you, I should assure you that rumours of humans' relative endowment are grossly exaggerated-"_

"_Zevran! Dear Maker, I think I'm going to be sick!"_

"_Shall I hold back your hair? Perhaps a light massage will help settle your delicate constitution..."_

A parry taken low jarred his wrist, the broad sweep of Alfstanna's blade sliding close to the hilt of Alistair's sword, and he gritted his teeth as she shifted her weight behind it, the unexpected pressure forcing him to take a step backwards.

"_Remind me again why I didn't kill you when I had the chance?"_

"_My dear, you wound me. Think of what _fun_ you would miss out on. Oh look, it appears our friend has won his match. It is wonderful, is it not, the way he wields his sword... look at how the light plays upon his muscles, how he unmans his opponent with his rugged good looks... it is enough to make an elf swoon with desire."_

"_Not this elf, thank you."_

"_You, my dear __warden__, have no eyes for the finer things in life."_

An opening emerged between Alfstanna's attacks, and Alistair slammed his shield into her breastplate. The force of it toppled the bann, and she fell hard onto the scuffed dirt of the training ground, the point of Alistair's sword hovering a few inches from her neck.

Had he truly bested her? Or had she merely feinted, and forfeited the match, in order to prevent him from losing face?

When he was fighting for his life, during the Blight, such questions had never been an issue. Back then, everyone and everything had been trying their damned hardest to kill him. But now...

(He had been distracted, after all. The thought of that brought to mind Sten's scornful admonitions, painful hours spent practising in the evenings after weary days of toil and bloodshed. Such inattention would have surely meant his death, once, but now it had not even earned him a rap across the knuckles or a blow to his pride.)

He shook the doubts from his mind and extended a hand, which Alfstanna took gratefully, pushing herself off the ground. She wearily removed her helmet, brushing limp tendrils of hair from her face. "Congratulations, Sire," she smiled. "I think I'm going to have bruises for weeks."

"I could say the same," Alistair replied, before adding, "ow."

The mage who had been watching their exertions with a wary eye now bounded up to them, and before Alistair could protest that he was absolutely fine, thank you very much, he felt the wave of healing magic wash over him, finding the nicks and bruises all over his body and restoring him to full health. As Alfstanna straightened, he noticed that a small graze on her hand had stopped bleeding, and that she no longer favoured her right knee.

"Perhaps we should try this again some time, if your schedule permits," Alfstanna said politely.

"Of course," Alistair replied, as he handed over his sword and shield to an attentive squire. The ebb and flow of pageboys and servants moved around them, bobbing like a living necklace.

"I understand that you are meeting this evening with the first enchanter," Alfstanna said, as they headed back towards the palace.

"Yes..." Alistair drawled, a frown on his face. "You know, I thought the whole point of self-governance was that the magi would - you know, govern themselves."

"Irving probably wants to discuss the actions of the Loyalists. I suspect he is concerned that their recruitment practices are encroaching upon Libertarian interests."

Alistair accepted a proffered towel from a squire, wiping at his face and neck as he walked. "It's something he should be addressing with - who's the new Loyalist again?"

"First Enchanter Keili," Alfstanna offered helpfully.

"Right. I mean, what am I, their go-between? Will I need to pass notes? 'Dear Keili, Irving says you're in his space. Please get out. Love, your king.' It's getting ridiculous."

Alfstanna sighed, handing a waterskin to Alistair, who accepted it gratefully. "He just wants to ensure you're not going to take sides, that's all."

"What, as if removing Chantry control from the Circle wasn't evidence enough?" Alistair asked incredulously. "I thought Knight-Commander Greagoir was going to have a fit when I announced that," he said, recalling the events of his coronation.

Alfstanna's lips quirked into a smile. "I suspect Irving is just being cautious. After all, you were trained as a templar."

Alistair sighed. "Yes, and the Chantry has never forgotten it." He scowled, before taking a swig from the waterskin. "You'd think that it wouldn't matter anymore, but no - the grand cleric throws it in my face every time I see her." He shuddered, taking another swig, and wished that it was something stronger.

Alfstanna made a face at his inopportune statement, and he pretended not to notice. The servants around him kept their expressions carefully blank, presumably accustomed by now to having a commoner for a king. "No one doubts your piety, Sire," she said quietly. "But the rumours from Redcliffe are growing stranger. What are you planning to do?"

"Me? Planning?" Alistair gave her a dubious look, one eyebrow raised. "Now why would I do a thing like that?" he asked sceptically. "I was just expecting things to kind of fix themselves."

Alfstanna laughed nervously. "Your Majesty jests," she said lightly, but underneath her tone he could detect a note of disapproval.

Alistair paused, glancing around them, and then leaned in towards her. "The grand cleric has the final say in this," he said quietly. "You and I both know that the divine will not stand idly by while her theocracy is challenged."

"The wardens," Alfstanna surmised. She brushed the hair back from her face, looking troubled. Like most Fereldans, she probably distrusted the presence of the Orlesian force that had settled itself in Amaranthine.

Alistair nodded slightly, and then continued moving. As they neared the junction where they would part, Alfstanna placed a hand on his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "Waking Sea will stand by you," she affirmed. "Whatever you choose to do," she added, a wry smile on her lips.

Alistair paused, recovering from his surprise with a gracious smile. "Are you sure that's wise?" he teased. "After all, I could be planning to cover Denerim in bunting and run through the streets dancing the Remigold..."

Alfstanna laughed, drawing back from him. "I gave you my word," she noted. "Don't squander it, Sire."

Alistair sighed. "No, of course not. It means a lot to me, Alfstanna," he said earnestly, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips, "and I thank you."

She nodded, the smile returning to her face. "You're welcome, Sire," she said with a slight bow. "Don't let Irving keep you too long," she added over her shoulder, as she left him.

"Don't remind me," Alistair groaned. The servants were already coming round with lighted tapers for the candelabra (Maker, was he late already?) As he contemplated Irving's wrath, a page ran up to him, the poor boy breathing heavily and appearing to be near exhaustion.

"Your Majesty, I've been looking all over for you," he said between gasps. "The first enchanter is here, and you're not even dressed-"

"I know," Alistair said guiltily, allowing himself to be led away to be bathed and clothed. "Sorry," he added, but the boy appeared not to have heard him.

It was going to be a long night.

.

.

.

Alistair last saw Irving at his coronation.

The mage had been old even then, although exactly how old, the king had never been certain. He had fought by their side at the end of the Blight, against the archdemon, and then returned quietly to the tower and continued to lead the rest of the mages who rejected Chantry rule and remained with the Circle. Ferelden was unique in Thedas, as far as Alistair knew, in having a portion of their mages under self-governance, and Irving had a difficult role in trying to establish that this was actually a feasible solution.

The Antivan Circle held a particular interest in the fate of the Fereldan Libertarians. Apparently, factions within their Circle had also been agitating hard for similar changes to be made in Antiva, though only time would tell whether any of those developments would come to fruition. Antivan politics were... strange, in any case. Alistair generally thought it best that their countries left each other alone.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting, First Enchanter," Alistair said, gesturing for the mage to sit. He had arranged for them to meet in his study, and a servant was setting out a carafe of wine and two glasses. Upon the king's arrival, she quickly finished pouring before curtsying and leaving the room, the door shutting quietly behind her.

"I understand that you are a busy man, Your Majesty," Irving said in his gravelly tones. He reached for a glass with a wrinkled hand, and Alistair was alarmed to see a slight tremor as he raised it to his lips.

Irving had always intended to retire after the Blight, or at least that was what Wynne had said, in any case. But after Uldred and the archdemon, the numbers of mages in Ferelden were close to maybe two dozen, and then a quarter of those had broken off to be governed by the Chantry at a remote location along the southern coast. Wynne had left with Shale, heading towards Tevinter, and so there had been no one left to hold the reins in the Circle tower.

(That was a lie - there had been one other person. Alistair tried hard not to think of her.)

"How have you been?" Alistair inquired. That was probably the wrong thing to say. Irving looked... tired. He carried his dignity around him like a dusty old cloak, so worn in places that the light had begun to shine through where the fabric had grown thin. Merely looking at him made the king wonder how he himself had aged over the years.

"As well as can be expected," Irving said mildly, sipping his wine. He replaced it on the side table with a barely audible clink, and looked over at his king. It had taken three frantic pages to wrestle Alistair out of his plate and into evening wear. The black silk of his clothes seemed to suck up the light, and the colour sat uneasily on him, making his tanned face look drawn and washed out. "May I enquire after Your Majesty's health?" Irving asked.

"I am well, thank you." Alistair tried the wine. It made him feel as though he was eight again, and invited for a special occasion to sit at the grown-ups' table with the arl and arlessa, who would have been glaring at him as though he was going to make off with the silverware. He hastily replaced the glass.

They discussed magi politics for some time, as Alfstanna predicted. Sometimes, it seemed that nothing had changed since Alistair had made that crucial pronouncement - or if things had changed, then they had not been for the better. But choice was never a bad thing, right? And at least the Libertarians allowed any mothers in the Circle to have access to their children - that was important, wasn't it?

Irving leaned back in his chair, his fifth glass of wine cradled in his hands. "Did Sylvanna ever tell you that she was returning to the Circle, after the Blight?" he asked.

Alistair nearly dropped the carafe he was holding. He managed to refill his glass without any spills, though it was a near thing. "No," he said. He took his time replacing the stopper in the carafe, to avoid looking into Irving's eyes.

Fortunately for the king, the mage's gaze was focused away into the distance, his voice filled with memories. "Not to stay, of course," Irving added with a dry chuckle. "She was searching for that apostate - what was her name?"

"Morrigan," Alistair provided through clenched teeth.

"Ah," Irving said sadly. "The Witch of the Wilds. Yes, I remember now."

Alistair also remembered. He took a gulp of the wine, and then another, and tried to forget.

"Sylvanna was talented," Irving mused. "One of my most promising apprentices. Of course, you knew that," he said, looking over at the king. "You must have spent a great deal of time with her."

"We were friends," Alistair said. "Nothing more." Soon after his engagement to Anora was announced, vicious rumours had begun to spread, speculating on the nature of his relationship with the other grey warden. Sylvanna had laughed, muttering something about the stupidity of humans, and then cried, because Morrigan had just left them (that evil cow) and Anora had accepted it with the weary resilience of a queen. (The rumours stopped abruptly, some weeks later, but Alistair had never dared to ask Anora how she had managed it).

Irving sighed, replacing the glass on the table. He steepled his fingers, calluses and old scorch marks visible on his hands. "The Child God is said to be ensconced at Redcliffe with two female mages - a human and an elf. Surely I am not the only one who has made the connection."

"Your point being?" Alistair asked. He took another sip of the wine, and found his glass empty. He stared at the carafe longingly, but Irving was still speaking.

"This is bigger than the Chantry," Irving said. "Bigger than Ferelden, most likely."

Alistair reached for the carafe, and poured. "What would you have me do, First Enchanter? I haven't seen either of them for ten years-"

"You and I both know that the Chantry will respond with force," Irving said. "I believe that they are destined to fail."

Alistair swirled the wine in his glass, leaving it untouched. "Is this merely your instincts talking... or do you have some other reason behind your words?" he asked. "I struggle to see how three people and the forces of one arling can stand up to the armies of an Exalted March."

Irving smiled, his eyes devoid of mirth. "And yet, the four of you and a dozen mages defeated the archdemon and a cohort of darkspawn. There is a reason why they call her the 'Child God', Sire. She is no ordinary mage."

"As if that wouldn't be bad enough," Alistair muttered.

Irving shook his head. "It doesn't have to come to bloodshed," he said. "Talk to them. Find out what they want. If there is a peaceable solution to this, then we should take it."

Alistair raised his brow. "You expect me to tell the divine to call off her armoured lackeys?" he asked. "For what - the hope of peace?" He held up a hand as the first enchanter looked as though he was about to speak. "No - let's say that I do this, and somehow the Chantry actually listens to me and holds off the cavalry. What if what she wants is something I don't want to give? What if the price of peace is too high?"

"The price of war will be higher."

"But how do you know?" Alistair persisted. "Divination is old magic. Blood magic. And something that is still very much illegal, as you're well aware. I'm not stupid, you know. I did serve in the Circle for a while, as a templar." That was mostly true. He had attended one Harrowing, which had gone badly (though he did not give the killing blow), and then begged never to be assigned to the Circle tower again. Not long after, Duncan had come, and his dreams of that apprentice's face as he transformed into an abomination were replaced by dreams of darkspawn, instead. Still, Alistair had deemed the change to be an improvement.

"It matters not," Irving said. He leant over, his weathered face coming too close to Alistair's own for comfort. "Trust me, Sire. The worst is yet to come."

"Great," Alistair muttered, "just the sort of news I like to hear." He put his glass down, the wine sloshing up against its sides. "Look, I can't promise anything. But I will consider what you've told me."

Irving shook his head. "You will need to make a decision, and soon. The divine will not remain silent forever."

Alistair brushed a hand back over his hair, leaning back in his seat. "The Loyalists will heed her call, of course," he speculated. "Am I to assume that you will not?"

"I see no good coming from throwing away the lives of the young men and women under my care."

"All right," Alistair said. "I'll think about what you've said."

Irving rose from his seat, and bowed deeply to the king. "I pray you see that this is the best solution, Sire."

As the mage turned to go, Alistair called out to him. "Wait." As Irving turned, he wetted his lips, looking up hesitantly into the mage's politely blank face. "Did Sylvanna have a second phylactery?" he asked. "I know there was one in Denerim, but it's... gone, now," he said, thinking of the templars who had been sent out under Anora's command, five years ago.

"Not that I am aware of. May I ask what happened to the first one?"

"Probably got lost in the paperwork," Alistair said, his face betraying nothing. "It - it doesn't matter, anyway. I only thought it could be useful - as a means of communication, or something..."

Irving's face cracked into a smile, though the expression failed to reach his eyes. "If you wish to speak to them, Sire, then I believe that the solution is easy," he said.

"You need only to pray."


	9. The Hero of Ferelden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many, many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> Additional gratitude goes out to reader/writer KyaniteD, whose comments inspired the theme of this chapter (not sure if this was what you were expecting, but yeah... I extrapolated a bit from some of the things you mentioned. ^_^;; Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!)

**The Fade**

The _vhenadahl _tree was ancient and huge. Its roots extended to the far reaches of the Alienage, the bulbous curve of them occasionally protruding through the surface of the dusty alleys in its greedy quest for sustenance. It had been old even when Valendrian himself was a boy, and sometimes the _hahren _would tell of how he would scale its branches, and hide within its leaves for hours on end (this was always accompanied with a mildly worded caution against any young elf attempting to do the same).

Sylvanna tightened her grip on one of its branches, hauling herself upwards. The tree felt coarse and dry against her palms and bare feet, and she was certain she had ripped a hole in her skirt on the way up. Mama would be displeased, she realised with a guilty start, and she clung to the tree in indecision. A welcome breeze ruffled her hair, the leaves rustling all around her in a gentle susurrus, and a beetle walked calmly over her hand, completely undisturbed by her presence.

She peered down. The ground seemed much farther away than she thought it would be, and everything looked smaller from here - the houses, the people and the dogs who wandered the streets were all diminished. She wondered if this was what the world looked like all the time to a bird, being aloft and free and infinitely superior to the poor creatures who were forced to live on land. If she had the power to live in such a way, she would never go back.

She clambered up another branch, and then another. The tree's limbs were growing narrower now, but they were still broad enough to support her weight with ease. Mama marked her height off every season on the door frame, and complained that she was short for a six-year-old, but Sylvanna did not mind. Small was good - it meant that there were more places to hide, and fewer chances of being tagged when playing games of chase the shem.

She was getting close. She shifted forwards another inch, and then another, her weight supported by two branches holding her at a sharp angle to the ground. She could hear them clearly now, and their crying only seemed to increase as she slithered closer and closer.

The nest was cradled at the junction of two branches, snugly fitted as though it had always been part of the _vhenadahl_. Tiny bundles of fluff popped their little heads out of it, their tongues pale pink and trilling with complaints. She was so close, she could probably reach out and touch one-

"Surana!" a voice called from down below. She twisted her head, searching through the thick canopy of leaves before she found the source of the caller. It was Jarlath, she noticed with dismay, his sharp eyes watching her as he bit into a peach, the juice of the fruit running down his chin.

"What do you want?" she asked, suddenly protective of her find. She did not want to share it with anyone, and least of all with him. He was the same age as her, but half a head taller already, with the bone structure to suggest that he would be much taller still in a few years' time. He was ugly and coarse and a bully, the sort of boy you would expect to find picking wings from a beetle or organising pit fights between stray dogs. Sylvanna and the younger children kept away from him as much as they could, but within the walls of the Alienage, no hiding place was secure from his obnoxious presence.

"Nothing," he said. He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully, and continued to peer up with his gawping eyes.

"There's not enough room here for you," Sylvanna called down; a blatant lie. The tree was huge, and its branches could have supported a dozen children or more. She shifted her weight, and wondered if he had seen the nest, wishing that the mother would return. He would probably feed the babies to his dogs if he could reach them. "What are you looking at?"

Jarlath smirked, and spat out the peach seed before responding. "I can see your small clothes," he taunted, with an odious grin.

Several things happened in quick succession.

Sylvanna squealed in horrified indignation, and scrambled to cross her legs, scraping her knee badly in her haste. As she reached down to adjust her skirt, her elbow knocked the corner of the nest, the impact causing one tiny bird to tumble out of its shelter. She reached out desperately as it fell, its siblings crying plaintively from the safety of the nest. Her fingers closed around thin air and she overbalanced, tumbling for an anxious moment before catching herself painfully on a lower branch, her nails scrambling frantically against the bark of the branch before she righted herself.

Sylvanna tossed the hair out of her face, peering anxiously down to the ground below. Jarlath was looking down at his feet in amusement, as he prodded a small shape with his foot. "Huh. I think you killed it."

Faster than she thought possible, Sylvanna was shimmying down the tree, landing with a soft thump onto the dirt below. She crept over to the boy, staring down with horror at the thing at his feet. "No," she protested, tears welling in her eyes. "No, no, no, no, no..."

"You're a murderer," Jarlath said with delight. "Surana is a murderer!" he shouted, repeating the phrase over and over as he ran off.

She sank to her knees in the dirt, and tentatively reached out her hands towards the tiny body, cradling it between her fingertips. "I'm sorry," she cried, the tears tracing wet paths down her cheeks, "I'm so, so sorry..."

A shadow fell over her, and she raised her head angrily, expecting to see Jarlath, but it was only Kallian. The older girl glanced down, not unsympathetically, and offered her a hand. Sylvanna shook her head; she needed to dig a grave for the little one, Mother Boann would be required to give it its final rites...

When Sylvanna glanced down, the bird was nowhere to be seen. She turned her hands over and over, smoothing out her skirt, and clambered to her feet, searching the ground.

Kallian watched her with the growing suspicion that her friend was little unhinged. "You shouldn't cry," the older girl insisted. "Only shems cry," she added, with a sniff of disdain.

"It's gone," Sylvanna wailed, trying not to sniffle. She glanced up into the tree, but the nest was invisible from the ground. It had been there; she had seen it, and Jarlath had seen it, and-

"What's gone?"

Sylvanna opened her mouth to reply, but a dark shape moving to her right gave her pause. It was a dog, sandy brown and stocky, with a strange, squashed-looking face, and fierce whorls of colour painted over its coat. It was standing next to the _vhenadahl _tree with one of its back legs cocked, and it...

Sylvanna shouted out in horror. "Bad dog!" she scolded. "Very bad dog!"

The dog finished its business, setting its leg back on the ground, and trotted up to the two girls, sniffing her. Sylvanna remembered, belatedly, that she was terrified of dogs. She had been scared at the sight of them ever since Jarlath had told her that humans liked to feed elves' ears to them for sport, with a painful tug on her own points for emphasis. This dog was so big. It was large enough that it could probably crush her in its massive jaws, but its huge eyes seemed unexpectedly friendly. It cocked its head to one side, observing her with a confused whine, and then before she could run, it stepped forwards and licked her face with its huge, warm tongue.

"That - that's gross," Sylvanna spluttered, drawing back from it. She wiped ineffectually at her cheeks, feeling the traces of drool mixed with her tears.

"Shems," Kallian said in a low tone, with a warning hand on her shoulder.

Sylvanna turned, and peered up. Her gaze continued for some time, for the person standing before her was so very tall.

"Hello," one of the humans said awkwardly, and cleared his throat. "Sorry about the dog."

There were three of them, and they were all heavily armed. The tallest one, the male, was carrying a shield, but to Sylvanna's surprise the heraldry seemed to be of a single rampant griffon, and not the twin lions of Denerim. His companions looked even stranger. There was a red-headed woman who moved with a delicate, easy grace, a bow slung on her back. She kept close to the man, but not quite near enough to touch. The last human was another woman who stood apart from the others, her arms crossed fiercely across her chest, a glare in her oddly yellowish eyes. There was a tension to her that unnerved Sylvanna, more so than the obvious air of danger around her or her outrageously revealing clothes.

"What do you want, humans?" Kallian asked with a sneer, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Sylvanna was shamed by her bravery. Kallian Tabris had always been the stronger one; she was smarter, faster and more resilient. Surely she was destined for better things than eking out a living in the slums.

"We've heard that there has been trouble here," the male human explained.

"Like you care about what happens to a bunch of elves," Kallian said.

"Perhaps you should find some more malleable subjects to interrogate, Alistair, than a pair of filthy children," the dark-haired woman suggested, her lips pursed in disapproval.

"Allow me." The archer stepped in front of the man and her fingers flashed deftly, something sparkling in the air between them. The two young elves watched her, transfixed. She spread her hands and turned them over, revealing that they were empty, before leaning down and appearing to pluck a shiny silver coin from behind Kallian's ear, dropping it into the girl's hands. Sylvanna was so preoccupied with staring at her friend that she didn't notice the human approach her, until she found a second coin being pressed into her grimy hand.

"You both look like you could use some meat on your bones," the woman said. Her voice had a wonderful, lyrical quality, her unfamiliar accent both soothing and intriguing.

"People are getting sick," Kallian explained. She had already tucked her coin away and out of sight, and Sylvanna hastily moved to do the same, slipping hers under a band on her pinafore. The metal felt cold and solid against her skin, more money than she had ever held before in her short life. "There are humans here already, who say that they have a cure. They took the sick ones over there," Kallian said, pointing over to a nearby building.

The humans glanced across in the direction she was pointing, seeing a crowd of elves gathering around the same building. Meanwhile, the large dog had returned to Sylvanna's side, and she glanced askance at it, still wary. It dropped a stick at her feet that was as long as her arm, and then sat back on its haunches, looking up at her expectantly.

"How disgusting," the scantily clad woman said. "It appears that the mutt has found another stray."

There was something about the woman that stirred unfamiliar feelings in Sylvanna. Something prickled at the edge of her memory, and she shifted uneasily, trying to ignore it. The only humans she knew of were Mother Boann and the city guards who occasionally ventured into the Alienage, and the fat, slow-footed merchants who held their stalls in the market square. These people were nothing like the others. The way they carried themselves was so different - arrogant, even - the hint of danger lurking just below the surface. Even the soft-spoken one who had spun tricks with the coins was the same, power mixed with beauty in equal measure.

"Alistair," the archer said urgently, her head tilted back as she stared up into the sky. Sylvanna followed her gaze, feeling something tugging at her, a longing, and her eyes were drawn to the same thing that had captured the human's attention.

A dragon.

Its shadow passed over them as it moved gracefully overhead, its enormous wings beating in long, steady strokes. They watched, transfixed, as it moved towards the south-east of Denerim.

The man was the first to recover, shaking his head as though to dislodge something from the inside of his skull. "Let's move," he ordered.

Something close to fear passed across the dark-haired woman's face. "This was not meant to be," she insisted. "This is - too soon. Preparations have not been made..."

The man's face twisted into a smile. "You were the one who wanted me to stop wasting time and get on with killing things. Well - here it is. One archdemon, gift-wrapped. Who could ask for more?"

The woman shook her head, clearly distressed. "You do not even know how it is that grey wardens slay such beings! I needed to tell you-"

"We'll talk on the way," the man promised. "We need to go. Now. Even you," he added, this last part to the dog, who slunk to the human's side with an apologetic whine.

"You're going to kill her," Sylvanna said. At their blank looks, she added, "the dragon. You can't," she insisted, "because she's my-"

_Daughter_, she thought unexpectedly, and then recoiled from the word. Whatever had possessed her to think that?

"Do not be afraid," the archer said, bending down to face her. "Alistair's a hero. It's what they do."

Sylvanna looked up, glancing beyond the archer to see the other woman staring at her with a penetrating gaze. Something passed between them, the indelible stuff of memory that beckoned, through the haze of what could have been and what should have been, to ring with a clarity and force that she could not ignore.

"Time to wake up, my love," Morrigan said.

Sylvanna woke up.

.

.

.

**Redcliffe**

It was pitch dark.

Sylvanna twisted in the sheets, shivering with half-remembered impulses of fear and longing as her hands reached for the woman who shared her bed. Morrigan was awake, her shape barely distinct in the dying glow of the fire.

"The dreams, again?" she asked.

Sylvanna merely nodded, burying close to her and refusing to let go. Morrigan hesitated for a moment, before wrapping her arms around her. Secure again, with the reassuring rhythm of Morrigan's pulse against her cheek, Sylvanna drifted back to sleep.

When she next awoke, she found herself alone.

It was early morning, the pale shreds of light finding her where she lay and bathing her bare body with a muted glow. Sylvanna stretched, feeling an ache in her back as she stood up, yawning. Echoes of memory clutched at her, as she thought about peaches, and the smear of juice from lip to chin...

She walked over to the wash basin and scrubbed her face and hands, more fiercely than was necessary, as though that would erase the last dregs of her dream from her mind.

The Fade was a strange place. After the Blight, dreams of darkspawn and corruption had subsided dramatically into nothing more than distant murmurs. It had been a shock, at first, albeit a welcome one, but then something else had awoken from its slumber, and beckoned to her with its strange, beautiful voice, filled with yearning and desire...

Sylvanna was too young to hear the Calling, or so she told herself. Alistair had said - Alistair had said thirty years, give or take, and it had only been close to eleven. Then again, Alistair had not known about how archdemons were killed, so perhaps he had been wrong about this, too.

(It could not be true. She was too young, and there was still so much to do. Her place was here - not in the Deep Roads, where all the old wardens went to die, for fear of a fate far worse than death.)

She dried her hands, and cast around for something to wear. A discarded dress on the floor caught her eye, and she sighed with the memory of it.

She had neglected her meeting with Arl Teagan.

The man was very strange, for a human, or so he had been, ten or so years ago. When they had first met, Redcliffe was being overrun by the undead, and he had requested their aid. That was all well and good, but then their conversation had taken an... unexpected turn. Her face had turned bright red, Alistair had coughed as though he were choking, and Morrigan had merely rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in disdain. Once she had recovered herself, Sylvanna had said something about how the bann ought to stick to his own kind, and that had been the end of that.

And now he had married a commoner. Teagan was a very strange man.

Sylvanna scrutinised her reflection in the mirror. The dress had been a gift from the Arl of South Reach, and she smoothed it down over her hips, feeling self-conscious. The last time she had worn a dress - a real dress, not a pair of robes that had been enchanted to aid her powers in killing people, or those strange Tevinter garments that sat above the knee and had elicited wolf whistles from the more vulgar members of their party (but were strangely comfortable, apart from those ugly furry shoulders, and really very practical in a fight) - had been at Alistair's coronation.

Now that had been an awkward occasion. Leliana had wrestled her into a gown that had been specially altered, which had been embarrassing (apparently elves did not usually attend such functions - aside from serving at them) and it had chafed, though not as much as Alistair's ceremonial armour, judging by the look on his face.

Sylvanna shied away from her reflection, and fussed aimlessly with her hair for a few fruitless moments. Eventually giving it up as a lost cause, she slipped a cloak over her dress and ventured outside.

She headed towards the eastern tower, unsure as to what she should expect. Teagan had been given an ultimatum, and it was his choice as to what happened next. Nothing he could say to her would change that.

The guards outside his room nodded to her as she approached. "The arl is waiting for you, M'Lady," one said to her.

Sylvanna raised a brow. "He's been here all night?" she asked.

The guard shrugged. "It appears so."

Sylvanna breathed out, mentally preparing herself. "I won't keep him long," she promised the guards, who stood aside to let her pass.

The remnants of a fire still glowed in the hearth, and seated before it was the arl himself, clearly wide awake. He glanced up as she entered, and she was pleased to see that he had filled out his frame slightly since she had last seen him. He looked... healthy, at least, even if dark shadows hung under his eyes.

"Warden," he said, standing up, "so glad that you could find the time to meet with me."

He towered over her, his empty hands held casually by his sides. The guards would have frisked him for hidden weapons, of course, but he still moved like a man of martial talents, strength and deadly agility in every movement.

"I propose we stretch our legs as we talk, Warden," Teagan suggested. A slight quirk in his brow betrayed his anxiety, or perhaps it was merely the lack of sleep. "What say you?"

"Very well," Sylvanna agreed, before she could stop herself. She stepped out of the room, and Arl Teagan followed, the guards watching him warily.

"Warden, are you sure-" one of them began.

"You may follow at a distance, if you wish," Sylvanna granted. Teagan had his family to think about, after all.

The arl offered her his arm, and she looked at him with confusion. He dropped it, his mouth quirking into a wry smile. "Old habits," he said. Clearing his throat to cover his embarrassment, he began to walk slowly, clearly conscious of not making any sudden moves.

There were scores of servants about, even at this early hour. They carefully avoided his gaze, passing the group as swiftly as they could. Sylvanna scanned their faces as they brushed past, but none of them seemed familiar.

Teagan stopped abruptly, and Sylvanna almost ran into the back of him. "I have something in mind that I think you should see, Warden. It is not far, if you would care to indulge me."

Sylvanna raised a brow. "This sounds mysterious."

Teagan laughed, with a sideways glance at the guards who were following behind them. "I assure you, it is nothing of the sort."

They crossed into the courtyard, Teagan leading them up a flight of stairs to the parapets. Guards on patrol gave them odd looks as they passed by, but none of them stopped or even questioned their party. Teagan glanced behind him halfway up the stairs, and continued moving when he saw Sylvanna close on his heels.

"Eamon and I used to play hide and seek on these walls," he said when they had reached the top. "One day, I was so determined to win that I bribed a guard with an apple into promising not to give me away."

"Did you win?" Sylvanna asked.

"In a manner of speaking. Eamon became so tired of searching for me, he went away to practise sword fighting with Rowan, our sister. It was dark when I finally crawled out from my hiding spot, cold and terribly hungry."

Teagan leaned over the parapet, and the wind ruffled his hair, blowing it across his face. He paid it no heed, however, gesturing to the tower across the lake. "You must be glad to be free of it, yes?" he asked, glancing back at Sylvanna. She kept her face blank, not deigning to answer such a ridiculous question. "You know, Alistair did himself a great disservice, freeing the mages from the Chantry's purview. The fallout from that decision was not insignificant."

"It was the right thing to do," Sylvanna said.

"You think so?" Teagan's eyes were hard. "You believe that all people should have some personal freedoms, perhaps? That they should have the right to make their own choices?"

"Choice is a luxury that must sometimes be forfeited for the greater good. You know that as well as anyone, Arl Teagan."

"Touché," Teagan murmured, a grim smile on his lips.

Sylvanna had always assumed Teagan to be a dilettante - content to while away his days in Rainsfere, avoiding the duties and intrigue of court to keep to himself and (so rumour had it) to comfort his brother's wife in Eamon's absence. He had changed, over the years, becoming a father and an arl, shouldering both the weight of the castle and the burden of parental responsibility.

"Tell me what happened to Eamon," Sylvanna insisted.

The arl averted his eyes from her, instead redirecting his attention to the little wooden houses that bordered the very edge of the lake. "The village looks so very small from here, don't you think?" he asked. "Do you remember when you first came to Redcliffe, Warden?"

Sylvanna joined the arl in observing the view. "I remember."

"You were such a strange lot," Teagan mused. "A qunari, a dog, three humans and an elf - but we were desperate for aid. If you had been three-headed demons from beyond the Veil, we would have accepted your swords, if you would have fought for us."

Sylvanna doubted that very much. The effect on morale for the Redcliffe soldiers would have negated any benefits from that particular arrangement.

"Many died that night," Teagan continued, "but the village was saved. You were heroes."

"Your men fought bravely."

"Whatever happened to that golem, anyway?" Teagan asked, his brow crinkled slightly.

"She went to Tevinter, along with Wynne," Sylvanna said.

Teagan baulked for a moment at that revelation, before recovering himself admirably. "Ah. Pity. I would be curious to know what - she - thought of your new vocation as a priestess of death."

"You speak as though the founding of the Chantry itself was not mired in war and bloodshed."

"Andraste led her fellow slaves to freedom. You seem to be leading that child's followers into servitude."

"It is their choice whether to follow or not-"

"If you truly believe that, then I fear all hope is lost, Warden." Before she could reply, Teagan turned to a passing guard, gesturing him close. "Tomas. How long have you served my family?"

The guard glanced uneasily between the two of them. "All my life, M'Lord."

"And would you say that you are a loyal man, Tomas? A man who would faithfully keep his vows to his lord and lady?"

"Yes, but-"

"Good Tomas," Teagan continued, "would you be so kind as to draw your sword and strike down this intruder who threatens my family and the Arling of Redcliffe?"

The poor man shook his head miserably. "M'Lord, it is not my place-"

"If this woman - this mage, this... warden... were to command you to kill me, would you do so?"

Sylvanna bit her lip. "Teagan-"

The arl shushed her, holding his hand up. "Let the man speak."

The guard had not the sense nor the imagination to lie. "Yes, my lord."

"Why? Why are her orders more binding than my own, Tomas?"

The guard shifted his weight, his eyes darting between the two. "We serve the same mistress."

"And what has this mistress ever done for you, Tomas?" Teagan asked.

"I-" the guard stuttered for words. "She - She-"

Teagan's smile was bitter. "Thank you, Tomas. That will be all."

The guard looked uncertainly to the warden, and she gave him a nod. He continued onwards with his patrol, clearly glad to be done with the interrogation.

"Now, Warden, if that is not a form of slavery, I don't know what is," Teagan said to her softly. "That man's mind is clearly not his own."

Sylvanna looked troubled, and she turned away from the arl, pretending to show an interest in the dealings of the courtyard below them.

Teagan cleared his throat. "There is something else I want to show you. Come," he beckoned, walking along the parapet and descending by the far steps. The two guards followed them doggedly, maintaining a short distance between themselves and their charge.

The arl led them back into the castle, crossing past the main hall and up yet another flight of stairs. The guards clanked in their armour as they walked behind them, and Sylvanna wondered how they could bear it, in all that suffocating metal. It had to be like walking in a cage.

Teagan led them up to the second floor, and into a disused room. The guards waited outside, anxiously watching as if the arl could flee at any moment.

"This was Eamon's room," Teagan said. "It hasn't been used since - well, since he died."

Sylvanna had already guessed as much. "Was it Jowan?" she asked, wondering if perhaps the Ashes had only been a temporary cure.

"No," Teagan said. He was looking down at the empty bed, at the layers of dust that coated its covers. His voice had taken on a curiously hollow ring, his eyes shadowed with the echoes of grief. "It was the king."

"Alistair?"

"Do you remember when Eamon awoke from that cursed blood mage's poison?" Teagan asked. "I couldn't believe it, even then. After none of our knights returned, I had feared the worst. And yet, he was up and walking within the day. He-"

Teagan broke off abruptly, sounding strained. Sylvanna averted her eyes, and the moment passed.

"Having him wake, and being able to tell him that both his wife and son were safe and alive - well. I had never been more thankful to the Maker for sending you our way, Warden."

Sylvanna reached out a hand towards him. "Teagan-"

The arl brushed past her, exiting the room, and she followed after a moment's hesitation.

"I have one last thing I want to show you," Teagan said. He turned abruptly on his heel, and Sylvanna had to hurry to catch up with his long stride. He led them to the back of the estate, far from the crowds of servants and patrolling guards. Their escorts' greaves left imprints on the soil, still muddy from the previous evening's rain, and the hem of Sylvanna's dress tore as it snagged on a protruding root.

"Teagan, this is really very inconvenient-"

"Here," the arl said, stopping at last. They stood at the base of a huge, hollowed out tree trunk. The tree must have been massive when it was alive, needing at least three men standing with hands outstretched to span its girth.

"Ladies first," Teagan said, with a gesture of invitation. Sylvanna looked dubiously at the arl, but eventually picked up her skirts and ducked into the hollow trunk. There was room enough for her to stand upright, but Teagan remained in the 'doorway', hunched over.

Sylvanna gestured, and a wisp appeared, lighting the confines of the space. Mixed amongst the dirt and debris appeared to be a few toys, some feathers and a few pieces of brightly coloured glass - the treasure trove of a child.

"Eamon and I used to play here," Teagan said. "Rowan was too grown up for such things by then, but we still managed to have fun. I showed it to Roslyn, of course, when she was old enough to appreciate it. Those toys you see are hers."

Sylvanna squatted down, her skirt trailing in the dirt, and picked through the things. There was a short stick, about a yard long, with a tuft of feathers on the end, a wooden set of sword and shield, cut down to a child's proportions, and a small scrap of cloth that had probably started off life as a handkerchief. Some poor woman had painstakingly embroidered a heraldic design in the corner, Sylvanna saw, as she held it up to the light of the wisp.

"I cut that 'staff' for her," Teagan noted, pointing at the stick. "Not very well, I might add, but she seemed to like it well enough."

"I don't understand," Sylvanna said softly, staring at the piece of cloth she was holding. "Why... what are they for?"

Teagan offered her a hand, and she stared at it, unseeing for a moment, before placing her own within his and allowing him to help her out of the tree. The handkerchief was still in her grasp, and as she examined it in the bright sunlight, it was clear that the insignia was intended to be a rampant griffon, the insignia of the Grey Wardens.

"You know, I even owe my marriage to you, Warden," Teagan said as she released his hand. "Kaitlyn and I met in Denerim, where she travelled with her brother after you aided her. Were it not for her, I might never have become a father."

The arl began to pace restlessly, his footsteps sinking into the mud underfoot. The sunlight filtering through the trees picked up metallic glints of thread in his tunic, shining bronze and silver against the fine weave of the cloth.

"Is it any wonder that Roslyn worships you? Why she longs to grow up to be just half the woman you once were? Your story grew to legend," he continued. "Sylvanna Surana, the grey warden, the Circle mage, vanquisher of the Blight..."

"Teagan, stop-"

"...The Hero of Ferelden."

"What do you want from me?" Sylvanna asked, her voice a strained whisper.

Teagan watched her carefully, standing still with his hands clasped behind his back. It was obvious that he had rehearsed his next words, drawing them out as he waited for her to meet with him in the early pre-dawn hours. "You held all our hopes, once," he said. "You touched lives wherever you went, and changed them for the better. You can do so again," he begged. "There is still a way to make this right. Warden-"

"What are you saying, Teagan?" she asked, her voice curiously flat. "Are you suggesting that I should... kill my own daughter?"

The arl took a sharp intake of breath, and something changed in his face. It took a moment for Sylvanna to decipher his expression, to decode the set of his eyes, the softening line of his lips. It was an emotion that she had never expected to see from the man that they had imprisoned in his own castle.

Pity.

"Sylvanna," he said, as if he was swaddling his words in cotton wool, "what have they done to you? That - that creature is not your daughter-"

Her hand was outstretched before she knew it, and her palm struck him firmly across the cheek, the sound ringing clearly through the still morning air. He made no attempt to avoid her, though they both knew that he was more than capable of doing so. Behind them, they heard the two guards approaching, drawn by the sound of violence. Teagan slowly raised a hand to the reddened mark on his cheek, as if not quite believing what had just happened.

"Whatever you thought I was-" Sylvanna said, clenching her stinging hand into a fist, "whoever you wanted me to be - that woman is dead, Teagan."

"Sylvanna, wait-"

She turned from him, gathering her skirts in her hands, and fled from his pity. Her hair blew back in the breeze, the uneven ground slowing her flight as low vines whipped dangerously close to her face. Perhaps she thought that she could escape both the weight of her history and the accusations of the arl, if only she could run fast enough.

The Hero of Ferelden was dead.

The world had yet to learn what remained in her place.


	10. Fatality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**Denerim**

He should have done something. He should have stopped Irving, summoned the guards, handed him over to the Chantry... something.

Instead, Alistair had kept his silence, and had merely watched as the first enchanter had walked away, a wry smile on the old man's face.

"_You need only to pray_," Irving had said.

It had been blasphemy through and through. Ten years ago - five years ago, even, Alistair would not have hesitated to do his duty like a good little Andrastian, and would have challenged the mage to explain his heretical statement.

Now, things were - well, they were complicated. Irving was not only the first enchanter of the Libertarian Circle, he was also a symbol of the reforms Alistair had been trying to implement in Ferelden. Evidence of Irving's fall from grace would have turned scrutiny upon the rest of the king's somewhat controversial policies; scrutiny that Alistair could sorely do without.

So he had allowed the old man to pass with nary a word, like a coward.

Alistair shook his head, as though to clear it. Worship of deities other than the Maker was not... illegal, per se. In a country as large as Ferelden, with elves, dwarves, humans and qunari living side by side, certain cultural traditions had to be accepted, or at least tolerated. But if one of the most powerful mages in the land was actively supporting the Child God, a being who was rumoured to be part demon, who was kept alive only by the blood of innocents, who sacrificed infant babes under the pale moonlight... well, that was just as bad as if Irving had calmly claimed to be a maleficar.

There were larger issues at hand than the first enchanter, however. The grand cleric had requested an audience, and try as hard as he might to delay it, Alistair could stall Her Grace no longer.

She was here now, along with two Chantry sisters and Knight-Commander Bayard of Denerim. On his side, Alistair only had one of his advisers, Chancellor Hernays. (He tried hard not to think of it as having 'sides'; ostensibly, they both served Ferelden, but he had never managed to impress his piety upon the grand cleric, and she in turn had never demonstrated the depth of empathy that he had expected from a person in her calling).

Two guards were stationed at the back of the room, standing as motionless and as silent as statues. When on duty during his brief stint as a templar at the Circle tower, Alistair had often pretended that he was a Tevinter relic, cursed into stone as punishment for daring to defy the magocracy of Minrathous. Dreaming of the daring adventures he would have experienced when made of flesh had whiled away many a dull moment, and he wondered idly what mind games his guardsmen were playing to alleviate their boredom.

The servants had removed all the chairs from the audience chamber. In the king's experience, this practice was invaluable in ensuring that meetings were kept short.

"Your Majesty," Her Grace began, "I will not waste your time with meaningless pleasantries. The Divine has called an Exalted March on the false god who surrounds herself with heretics at Redcliffe."

"We intend to march upon the Arling by the last day of Justinian, Your Majesty," Bayard added.

Alistair nodded. This news was hardly unexpected. "I understand. And I appreciate you taking the time to inform me personally, Your Grace."

"This is not simply a courtesy call," the grand cleric said with narrowed eyes. Behind her, one of the sisters shifted uneasily, politely stifling a cough. "The Divine wishes to send a thousand score of Orlesian templars to surround the false god from the west."

That was somewhat less expected. Two nations' worth of templars, and the Orlesian wardens who had already arrived in Ferelden... what did the Divine know that Alistair did not? Just what, exactly, was she expecting from this little girl, who was barely old enough to swing a sword?

"Ferelden is more than willing to cooperate fully with the wishes of the Divine, but surely Her Perfection is not expecting more than a token resistance from a few rabble-rousers and vagabond Dalish?" Chancellor Hernays asked. "We have already extended our hospitality to a full complement of wardens in Amaranthine - to send further reinforcements at this stage would appear to be... excessive."

"This affliction must be snuffed out before it corrupts more innocent minds, Sire," the grand cleric said. "A swift victory will ensure that the least number of lives are unduly affected."

"Five hundred score templars from Orlais," Alistair insisted. "They will leave immediately via the Frostback Mountains once the child is... suppressed."

To his credit, Hernays' expression did not alter significantly, but a slight tightening of his lips signalled his displeasure to the king.

"Your Majesty is most gracious," the grand cleric said, her eyes glittering coldly.

Bayard cleared his throat, and the sound grated on Alistair's raw nerves like fingernails down a slate. "There is talk that the Hero of Ferelden herself is one of the leaders of this blood cult, Sire," the templar said, his eyes carefully gauging the king's expression.

"Many rumours exist around the false god and her companions," Hernays responded. "Once this unpleasantness is over, all the relevant parties will be tried for their role in inciting discord and violence, for the heinous slaughter of Chantry priests, and for the suspected murder of the Arl of Redcliffe and his family."

Alistair doubted whether it would come to that, in the end. A swift and quiet death on the battlefield would give the Chantry leave to control any residual outrage from certain factions in Ferelden about killing a person who had become a beloved figurehead. The passage of time and her apparent disappearance from the nation had only increased her notoriety, and during the first few years after the Blight, rumoured sightings of the Hero had cropped up like pestilent weeds. A public trial might appease the Chantry faithful, but the possibility of such an event inciting violence in the Alienages and amongst the Libertarians was too great to allow the Hero to survive the Exalted March.

"'The Maker will be her final judge,'" Alistair said vaguely, the old words coming to him with ease, drilled into his skull after years and years of lectures and endless sermons. They offered him as much comfort now as they had then, which was not very much at all.

Bayard began talking again - something about troop movements, but the king found his mind drifting away. The vague uneasiness in his gut was coalescing into something more distinct. Everyone knew mages were dangerous, and templars knew this best of all, but somehow, the abstract knowledge of the power which could be contained within a single fragile body was nothing compared to the reality.

It had been on the chilly slopes of the village of Haven that Sylvanna had really found her stride. She had been complaining about holding back for weeks, but Alistair had never quite understood what she had been talking about until she had finally showed them.

.

.

.

**Haven, eleven years ago**

"Seven archers in the valley," Alistair said. "Ten swordsmen as well." He passed the spyglass to his fellow warden who sprawled next to him, lying flat against the ground in a most unladylike manner. She peered thoughtfully through the length of the scope, counting off their enemies in her head.

"Kind of them to cluster around like that," Sylvanna said. She handed the spyglass back to Alistair, dusting off her knees as she joined him behind the abandoned cart that served as their makeshift cover.

"You're not going to make me go out there, are you?" Alistair demanded. "Alone?"

Sylvanna sighed. The last time they had faced a similar situation, she had persuaded Alistair to serve as 'bait' by attracting the attention of a group of bandits. (He had tried to point out the numerous holes in this plan, of course - not least the holes it was likely to leave in him - but she had been convinced that it would be a triumph). Bolstered by a series of charms, he had survived long enough for Morrigan to bring a blizzard down upon them, with his very vulnerable self at the centre of the storm. Her timing must have sucked (or more likely she had released the spell prematurely on purpose), since Alistair had half-frozen to death before Sylvanna had managed to protect him with a well placed force field. It had certainly been a success though, Sylvanna had argued later, even if frostbite had necessitated the regeneration of one of Alistair's fingers; a rather painful process, for which he had yet to forgive her.

"No. I want to try something different today," Sylvanna said. Somehow, Alistair was not reassured in the slightest. His misgivings only grew when Sylvanna turned to her favourite swamp witch, affixing her with an imploring gaze.

"Can we try it now?" Sylvanna begged. "Please?"

Morrigan pursed her lips in a frown, her gaze flicking between the two wardens. "'Tis a pity. I was eagerly anticipating an encore of your last performance, Alistair. Your transformation into a human icicle must surely be classed amongst the highlights of this misadventure."

Alistair ground his teeth, his face flushing with anger. "I should have guessed that glaciating your allies to death is the only thing that gets you hot, shouldn't I? At least I have warm blood to freeze," he continued, "you frigid, witchy... comrade-killer."

Sylvanna and Leliana exchanged exasperated looks, Sylvanna rolling her eyes.

"I, frigid?" Morrigan exclaimed. "Clearly, your senses must be as defective as your manhood, if you believe me to be frigid."

Without taking her eyes from Alistair, Morrigan drew a bewildered Sylvanna close to her. The witch pulled sharply on her hair, tilting Sylvanna's face upwards as she kissed her. Morrigan's hands wandered down Sylvanna's body in a slow, calculated display of desire, designed only to tease the voyeur. After a moment's hesitation, Sylvanna's hands did the same, tracing lightly down the bare skin of Morrigan's arms and slipping deliberately beneath the thin fabric of her robes. They paused briefly for breath, Morrigan shifting as she ran a wicked tongue down the pointed ridge of Sylvanna's ear, nipping gently at her earlobe before she planted a series of kisses down her neck.

Alistair's face went bright red as he looked away, trying to ignore the sounds behind him. The moment was only broken when Leliana coughed.

"Ahem." Leliana gestured towards the valley below, trying hard to stifle a giggle at the sight of the flushed faces on both wardens.

"Yeah, killing cultists, right," Sylvanna muttered, self-consciously touching her fingers to her lips as she pulled away from Morrigan. Alistair noticed that she was blushing to the tips of her ears, as she deliberately concentrated on taking another look at the valley below. Miraculously, the men stationed down there had not moved an inch.

"So here's how this will work," Sylvanna instructed, returning to the situation at hand, her eyes not quite able to meet Morrigan's gaze. "Once Morrigan and I begin casting, we'll be vulnerable. Alistair, I need your shield to protect us from any stray arrows. Leliana, you'll need to pin down any approaching fighters before they head too far from the archers." Alistair found himself nodding along with Leliana as they readied their weapons. Sylvanna took a breath, steadying herself. The expression on her face did not fill him with confidence.

"Once the spell is finished," she continued, "Morrigan and I will release a series of glyphs to keep the enemy within the spell's boundaries. You do not want to be nearby when that sets off, or you will lose more than a finger, I promise you," she said, with a pointed glance towards Alistair.

"You don't need to tell me twice," he protested.

"If there are any stragglers, deal with them as you wish." Sylvanna turned to the last member of their team. "Morrigan-"

"I am aware of my role," the witch said, aloof once more.

Sylvanna took a breath, seemed to think better of it and merely nodded. "Leliana, will you count us in?"

The bard inclined her head in assent, notching an arrow loosely to her bow as she set up her sights. "On my word," she ordered.

"Three."

The mages began to chant softly, each drawing upon their reserves of mana and beginning to shape it to their commands. Alistair shuddered at the feeling of it, his training allowing him to sense the transfer of energy as it flowed through each practitioner. He set his eyes grimly upon the path ahead, trying to ignore the pin-prickle of magic coalescing behind him.

"Two."

Alistair felt the very fabric of the world around them starting to bend to Sylvanna's will. The crackle of overheated air sounded ominously, tendrils of electricity dancing blue-white between her fingertips and setting his teeth on edge.

Down in the valley, a man shouted and waved up in their general direction, now sensing the energies that had begun to gather around him. As he started to rally his companions to scale the steep slope leading up to the two mages, Leliana steadied her bow, loosing a single arrow that sang as it flew, curving downwards and striking the man through the shoulder. On impact, the arrowhead shattered outwards, the air filling with stunned cries of pain as tiny slivers of shrapnel scattered to find their marks amongst the man's companions.

Leliana had no chance to witness the impact of her shot, ducking swiftly back into cover once more as a hail of returning fire headed towards her. As an arrowhead lodged itself in the gap between two slats of the cart, dangerously close to her head, she finished her count.

"One!" Leliana shouted, notching another arrow to her bow.

One of the fighters had escaped the crippling effects of Leliana's barrage, gamely leaping up the steep slope of the hilltop to scramble up and around the side of the mages... right into the hard edge of Alistair's waiting shield. As he traded blows with the cultist, the mages unleashed their spells.

Morrigan went first, releasing a seething mass of ice and sleet down into the valley. Thick, roiling blankets of snow obscured their vision of the scene for a moment, churning with a relentless fury. There were screams of pain as men found themselves freezing in place, unable to move their arms or feet. The screams only intensified when Sylvanna finished casting, a dark, swirling vortex erupting in the midst of the cultists. Lightning crackled through the air, arcing brilliant and white-hot, seeking the surest path from cloud to ground.

With a final thrust, Alistair dispatched the fighter he had been entangled with, wrenching his sword out from the man's chest with no small amount of difficulty.

"Wow," he said as the corpse fell away from him, taking his first look at the scene below them.

"Maker have mercy on their souls," Leliana whispered.

The whirl of the tempest below created a freezing wind that blew upwards, chilling their faces and turning lips and ears bluish from the cold. Within the vortex, hapless figures danced, buffeted by the force of the unbridled storm.

Most of them stumbled and finally fell within the first few seconds of the spell, but one archer, caught near the fringes had managed to half-walk, half-crawl towards the edge of the tempest. Seeing him, Leliana began to half-heartedly string an arrow to her bow. As they watched, the archer finally stumbled to his knees, succumbing to his wounds before ever reaching the safety of the world beyond the edge of the spell.

Alistair saw Sylvanna turn to Morrigan, and the look on the elf's face was enough to make him feel queasy. He knew he ought to glance away, but he found himself watching in horrified fascination as Sylvanna leaned forward and clasped Morrigan's face with both hands, pressing her lips to her in an eager kiss. It seemed to go on forever, and he vaguely wondered if either of them needed to breathe at all, or if that was just one of the human foibles that mages managed to do without, like empathy or chivalry on the battlefield or the common decency to allow a man to fight for his life instead of slaughtering him on the spot.

To his senses, the mages' bodies practically glowed with an unnatural pulse, radiating magic like dry heat between them. It was... disturbing, and kind of weird, and maybe, just maybe a tiny bit stimulating in all the wrong places. (This was Morrigan, after all - Morrigan, and a woman whom he had started possibly thinking of as a very annoying and very dangerous little sister - anyway, whatever it was, it was wrong.)

Dragging his attention away from the entirely shameless display going on behind him, Alistair stared grimly at the valley below, not even deigning to wipe the blood splatter from his face. Silently, he watched the snow settle in a delicate veil upon the half-frozen corpses, their limbs contorted painfully into unnatural angles.

Surely no mortal was ever meant to wield such power.

.

.

.

**Denerim, present day**

In the intervening time between listening to Bayard natter on about logistics, and thinking about the curious nature of a Maker who would allow mortals to have enough firepower at their fingertips to wipe out a whole squadron of their fellow men in an instant, Alistair managed to gather himself sufficiently to make his farewells to the grand cleric and her retinue.

"I confess that you surprised me there, Sire," Hernays said.

"Oh?" Alistair knew that his feigned innocence was fooling no one, even as he fell back onto the expression like an old friend. Hernays' lips quirked into a wry smile, but the chancellor's eyes were as chilly as the morning frost.

"Am I to understand that First Enchanter Irving advocated a peaceful solution? I was under the impression that Your Majesty wished to avoid bloodshed-"

"Violence is a solution, sometimes," Alistair commented. He wondered where he had heard that phrase before, and it came to him with a snatch of melody and the wafting scent of the small, white wildflowers that grew across Ferelden. "Look, the Chantry and I may not always see eye to eye, but in this, they are right - we can't let this continue. And somehow, I don't think that having a little chat and trying to resolve our differences over a glass of merlot is going to help."

Hernays nodded absently, but he failed to catch the king's eye. An irrational stab of fear suddenly struck Alistair's heart - was his closest adviser secretly a devotee of the Child God as well? Was there no one he could trust?

The moment passed, and he stuffed the doubts far away in the back of his mind. The chancellor was one of the most level-headed, thoughtful, eminently sensible persons that Alistair knew - and if he was perfunctory with his prayers, and tight-fisted with his tithes, then at least he was also not the sort of man to leap onto any two-copper cult that sprang up from the ashes of discontent.

"You have a meeting with the Alienage _hahren _before lunch," Hernays said, his eyes skimming over a slate board he held in his hand. "Then, I suggest you take some time to consider with myself and perhaps a select few others how you intend to inform the rest of the banns and arls that they are to expect more Orlesians on their borders. After that..."

As the chancellor's dulcet voice droned on and on, Alistair privately wished that the day was already over.

.

.

.

**Denerim Outskirts**

It was a warm summer's night, and Knight-Commander Bayard felt stifled in his full plate, a bead of sweat trickling down his face. The sound of crickets penetrated the air, repetitious and endlessly annoying. He swatted a mosquito away from his cheek, shifting uneasily in his armour.

He had brought his men to an abandoned clearing, some three miles or so from Denerim. It was the secrecy that made him nervous, that caused him to wonder what was so sensitive that it could not possibly be conducted within Chantry walls. A handful of templars had accompanied him, most of them keeping a close eye on a Loyalist mage who had also tagged along, for reasons that were so far unclear to Bayard.

The mage had kept to himself for the whole journey out of the city, staying silent as the templars had laughed and traded jokes around him. He was a scrawny little thing, barely old enough to be allowed out in the open. His thin shoulders were hunched against the slight evening breeze, his hands tucked deeply into his sleeves, despite the warm night air. He gave no indication that he was here for any reason other than to serve the Maker, and most of the other templars had already relaxed their guard around him.

At the back of their party trudged a young woman, her head despondently bowed. Her wrists were bound in front of her, and she took each step with all the enthusiasm of the condemned. Bayard had glanced into her eyes, once, and then hastily looked away, not wishing to lose himself in the depths of her despair.

A carriage drew close to the group, and Bayard looked up, seeing the golden sun of the Chantry emblazoned on its side. Once it had slowed to a halt, he walked up to it, opening its door. He was horrified to see the grand cleric herself emerging from its confines, as he offered her his arm. Two more templars descended from the front of the carriage.

"Your Grace, this... is an unexpected honour," Bayard managed. His orders tonight had been vague, indeed, and he had expected to be met by one of the revered mothers, at most. His eyes immediately scanned the rest of the people assembled; none of them were likely to prove a threat to the priestess, but Bayard did not like to take chances.

The grand cleric inclined her head towards him. "Let us be done with this swiftly, Commander," she ordered. She walked towards the young woman, the surrounding templars parting at her entrance. "Is this she?" the priestess demanded, her thin fingers lifting the prisoner's chin up firmly to gaze at her.

"Yes, Your Grace," Bayard said.

She released the girl, who slumped back, her head bowed as if she were hoping that the ground would swallow her up. "Show me the artefacts," the priestess demanded.

A templar walked over and emptied a sack in front of the prisoner. A handful of clumsily sculptured statues tumbled out, the clay twisted into vaguely humanoid shapes, grinning faces marked into their rough surfaces. The statues had been broken into large pieces, still recognisable here and there as representations of the female form.

"These idols were found in your quarters, Sister Nerys," the grand cleric said. "Do you deny that they are yours?"

The girl raised her head slowly, her face dirty and tear-stained. "No. But Your Grace, I never intended-"

"Do you deny that you are an illicit follower of the one they call the 'Child God'?"

The girl shook her head mutely. Wetting her lips, she glanced around desperately for support, or even a kind face, but the templars surrounding her offered no sympathy.

"You are an initiate, Sister Nerys," the priestess continued. "You have taken holy vows of obedience and fidelity. You have pledged yourself, body and soul to the Maker, and to further His glory."

Nerys began to cry silently, her body trembling. "I never wanted to betray His trust. But my little brother was terribly sick, and I needed to do something..."

"Have you considered, Sister Nerys, that your brother's illness was a punishment for your lack of faith?" the priestess asked. "That perhaps you needed to meditate on your failings in His eyes, instead of looking to the false god of a perverted blood magic cult to solve your problems?"

"He has no one else," Nerys insisted. "Our parents passed away when he was a baby - I'm all he has left."

Bayard noticed the mage shifting uneasily in his place, the boy's narrow shoulders tightening even further. The templar quietly moved his hand to his hip, leaving it hovering just above his sword hilt.

"Punish me, Your Grace, but please - please don't hurt my brother," the girl begged, falling to her knees.

The grand cleric's lip curled in distaste as she looked down at her. "We are not monsters, Sister Nerys," she said. "Your brother will be raised by the Chantry, and any trace of your wickedness will be cleansed from him."

Nerys sank lower onto her knees, her body almost doubled over, her hair falling across her face. The priestess made a sharp gesture, and a pair of templars walked over to the sister, taking her by her arms and dragging her to her feet. She sagged against them, and would have fallen if not for their support.

"Sister Nerys," the grand cleric began, "you have abandoned your vows. You have disgraced the Chantry, and brought sin and corruption into the holy house of the Maker. Due to the severity of your crimes, the only fitting penalty is death."

Nerys' eyes stared out at a point far away, as if her spirit was already yearning to be free from her mortal body. Bayard caught himself feeling sorry for her, then shook himself out of it. She was an oath breaker; she had destroyed the sacred covenant between her eternal soul and the Maker. This was the fate she had chosen for herself.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" the priestess questioned.

Nerys bit her lip, her eyes passing across each of the men surrounding her. Bayard met her gaze unflinchingly, but the sister's bleak look of resignation would prove to haunt him in the nights to come.

"Ishantha will draw me to Her heavenly side," she said slowly. "My body will feed Her everlasting glory."

The grand cleric made a graceful gesture, and the two templars at the girl's side suddenly released her, stepping back. The circle around Nerys widened until she was left alone, with bare earth stretching around her to a radius of five yards. Bayard's gaze drifted uneasily to his left, seeing the mage step forward to stand by the priestess's side. He gripped the hilt of his sword firmly, but the grand cleric seemed completely unconcerned, and merely nodded to the mage.

"Your body will provide no sustenance for the false god who plagues these lands and corrupts the children of the Maker," the grand cleric pronounced. "You shall be cleansed by the same fire that raised the prophet Andraste to the eternity of His blessed peace."

The mage raised his thin hands, and Bayard found himself holding his tongue, any words of support or pleas for mercy on behalf of the sister sticking in his throat.

"No," Nerys shook her head in horror, her eyes staring imploringly at Her Grace. "No - please, I beg you-" she cried, and began to back away, her arms raised protectively in front of her face.

When the mage began casting, each of Bayard's senses felt as if they had been set alight, the tug of magic pulling at him, demanding his attention. He stilled his nerves, watching as Nerys let out a surprised shriek, her hair and body becoming drenched in a glossy, waxy fluid that shimmered in the light of the torches held by the surrounding templars.

The mage increased the volume of his chants, and Bayard's knuckles turned white as the hilt of his sword bit deeply into his palm. Suddenly, gouts of flame emerged from the mage's hands and Sister Nerys' body lit up like a torch, burning green and orange as it blazed against the night sky. Her scream was a horrible thing, barely recognisable as human, and Bayard noticed a number of his templars placing their hands to their ears, glancing away in horror as the grease fire continued to burn.

The heat washed against Bayard's face, and he felt himself sweating under his armour, his breastplate radiating an uncomfortable warmth. Soon the screaming trailed off, for which he was grateful, and the mage lowered his hands, looking worn. The charred thing that had once been a living person collapsed to the ground, covering the remnants of the idols with soot.

Bayard found that the image of the girl's melting face seemed to be etched permanently in his mind. He blinked, and the vision receded, though not without a great deal of effort on his part.

The grand cleric turned abruptly on her heel, striding towards her carriage without a further word. The two templars that had accompanied her followed silently in her wake, and after a moment, the snap of the reins sounded through the air, and the carriage was on its way back to Denerim.

Bayard cleared his throat, breaking the silence that had descended upon the waiting templars and the mage. "Clean this up," he ordered, and his men came to attention, beginning to prepare a shallow grave for the remains. Bayard shuddered, and avoided looking at the blackened ash, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead.

"You. Mage," he said, addressing the only other person who was standing still. The young man looked up at him with empty eyes, his arms wrapped tightly around his thin chest. Bayard swallowed, and stepped closer to him, lowering his voice. "Were you aware that this would happen?" he asked.

The mage considered his words for a moment, his sharp face tilted slightly to one side. "It was inevitable. The righteous will be rewarded for their faith, and those who corrupt His kingdom will burn, just as the blessed Andraste was sacrificed in holy fire."

Bayard turned away, unnerved despite himself. It was not so much the mage's words as the look in his face, the utter lack of remorse at having immolated a defenceless young woman not more than a few moments ago. True, he had been instructed to do so by his superior, but it was still deeply... unsettling.

"We're done here, Commander," one of his templars said, wiping his brow. He had discarded his breastplate to assist with burying the remains, and his tunic was damp with sweat.

Bayard nodded. "Good work," he said, pitching his voice to be heard by the entire group. "Let's not linger here any longer."

They reverted back to their travelling formation, the mage kept always in the centre, unable to move without at least three others watching him at all times. He seemed content enough with his lot, keeping his eyes straight ahead of him, his hands clearly in view. Once again, he ignored the conversations that started up around him, and seemed to be lost in meditation or prayer, his face as immobile as a statue's.

Bayard beckoned his second towards him, and they drew a slight way ahead of the group, though still within clear sight of the others. "That mage," Bayard began, "who is he?"

"Some nobleman's brat, I think," the other templar offered. "He's been pretty good. When the word came that a March had been finally called, he was the first to volunteer. He's one of the most pious pieces of demon bait that I've ever seen."

Bayard risked a glance over his shoulder. The mage had not changed expression, walking forwards stoically with the same distant air with which he had performed the execution. "What's his name?" he asked. There was something familiar about his features; no doubt his father had been a fixture in Denerim, obsessed with toadying with the king, like all nobles were...

His second coughed and searched his memories for a moment, before coming up with the answer.

"It's Connor," he said.

"Connor Guerrin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I recently went back to Haven to try to get the extra cultists to spawn (once you've spoken with Genitivi), but it didn't work. In any case, I've taken some liberties with the terrain/set-up in that flashback.


	11. In the Shadow of the Sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> I recently took a break from this to write stuff from a tabletop game about zombies, which was entirely fun, but it's nice to get back to my elven warden and her crazy, crazy life :-)

**Redcliffe**

The sensation of sunlight on her bare skin was one that Sylvanna never took for granted. It had been eleven years since Duncan had led her away from the Circle Tower, covered in other people's blood and rocked by what she had naively thought would be the worst betrayal of her life. Eleven years, and still she caught herself looking over her shoulder, waiting for that inevitable moment when someone would come and tell her that it was time to abandon the real world, time to return to her studies and the artificial lights and never ending scrutiny that constituted life in the Circle.

The warmth on the back of her hands and her forearms felt luxuriously decadent, golden, even... wicked. She wanted to bathe in it like a contented cat, linger in its infinite embrace until the glorious summer turned cold and faded, leaving behind only the memories of its endless light.

On this clear summer's day, Morrigan had taken their daughter out on the pier for lessons. They were given a wide berth by the other inhabitants of the village, and as Sylvanna watched, Morrigan launched a perfect fireball off the edge of the dock. It soared, flawlessly round and golden, before exploding into nothing a few harmless yards above the water.

Next to Sylvanna, Roslyn watched the magefire with eyes as wide as saucers. They were seated upon an old blanket down on the slopes overlooking the lake, sufficiently far from the other mages so as not to feel the backlash of heated air from the lesson. Roslyn sat obediently still as Sylvanna accosted her tangled curls with a comb, slowly easing out the knots and snarls.

"That looks like fun," Roslyn said wistfully, flinching a little as Sylvanna caught a particularly difficult tangle.

"You shouldn't envy them," Sylvanna advised. "Being a mage is… well, it's not an easy life." She put down the comb and began dividing Roslyn's hair into sections, parting them nimbly with her fingertips.

"My cousin is a mage," Roslyn said. "I don't see him much," she added, with a small frown.

Sylvanna's hands paused for a moment in their work. "Yes." She sat still, lost in thought, before the arl's daughter gave her a curious look, and she returned to the task of braiding the girl's hair. "Your parents would miss you," she said. "If you were a mage, you would have to leave your home and go some place far away."

Roslyn shifted, and Sylvanna had to catch herself in time to avoid pulling on the girl's hair. "But she hasn't been sent away," Roslyn said, pointing down at the docks. "Isn't she a mage?"

The two of them watched Ishantha as she struggled to contain a glowing ball of eager flames between her hands. She launched it, the arc too high for it to travel any significant distance, and the undersized fireball tumbled down to the water where it extinguished itself with a puff of steam. Sylvanna began to feel sorry for the fauna in the lake, and wondered if perhaps Morrigan could not have selected a more suitable location in which to practice.

"She is… different," Sylvanna managed. Even if she were not - if she did not have the soul of an Old God, if she was not destined to become more than a 'mere' mage - Sylvanna would never send any child of her own to the Circle, no matter whether it was under Chantry oversight or not. She would sooner die.

"Look, they're coming back!" Roslyn said, as Ishantha began bounding up the slope where they were seated. Her mother followed at a much more sedate pace, and judging by her expression, she had not been at all satisfied with how the lesson had ended. Sylvanna finished tying off Roslyn's braids with a pair of ribbons, and prepared herself for the inevitable spectacle of Morrigan's displeasure.

"You look pretty," Ishantha said as she approached. She flopped down on the blanket, and ran a finger over the smooth weave of one of Roslyn's braids, the girl blushing with pleasure at the compliment. "Mama, may I have braids too?" Ishantha asked.

"If you will remain still."

Roslyn scooted over to allow her friend room to sit in front of Sylvanna, who began the arduous task of combing out her daughter's wild hair. She had untangled maybe half of it when Morrigan reached them, sitting down on the blanket with an awful scowl on her face.

"You're hurt," Sylvanna said as she looked at her, dropping the comb. Morrigan had what appeared to be a superficial burn, but it was large, stretching from her wrist to the inside of her elbow.

"'Tis nothing," Morrigan insisted, but permitted herself to be fussed over, as Sylvanna healed the wound in a matter of moments. Morrigan flexed her arm, and nodded in thanks as she probed the new skin with her fingertips.

"I missed," Ishantha said meekly, when Sylvanna turned to her with a questioning look, one eyebrow raised. "I was trying to hold it, and it... sort of... exploded."

"You are very lucky that you didn't get hurt," Sylvanna said, with an uneasy glance towards Morrigan. The witch was staring off into the distance, and did not return her gaze.

"Oh, I never get hurt." Ishantha picked up the comb again, pressing it into Sylvanna's hands, and she returned to the task of brushing her hair with long, mechanical strokes.

Roslyn placed a hand on Ishantha's knee, glancing up at her shyly. "I thought that your fireballs looked very nice," she offered, and Morrigan made a sound as though she was stifling a laugh. Sylvanna poked the witch in the calf with her bare toe, but she would not be silenced.

"You are supposed to be the very embodiment of Urthemiel himself," Morrigan told her daughter. "How can it possibly be that a simple spell remains beyond your power to comprehend?"

"Morrigan, she is trying," Sylvanna said with an exasperated sigh.

"Very much so, yes."

Ishantha's lower lip began to tremble, and she bit into it to keep it still, as her large eyes glistened with moisture. Sylvanna gave Morrigan a _now-see-what-you've-done_ look, as she wrapped an arm comfortingly around her daughter.

"The skill will come to you, in time," Sylvanna said.

Morrigan crossed her arms. "She is trying to manipulate your feelings, and you are falling for it."

"Oh, for goodness' sake-"

Morrigan flicked her wrist, a flame emerging from the centre of her palm. Roslyn took a sharp intake of breath, scrambling backwards, and Sylvanna released her daughter, reaching for the threads of magic in her own mind. Ishantha stared at her mother defiantly, her small hands clenching into fists.

"Prepare yourself," Morrigan ordered, and the flame leapt from her hand, hurtling towards the Child God.

An expression of terror crossed Ishantha's face, and Roslyn screamed, high-pitched and shrill. Ishantha raised her hands defensively in front of her eyes, her head turned away from the blast. Something shifted in the atmosphere, felt clearly by the mages, like the ringing of a bell. When Ishantha cautiously peeked over the top of her fingertips, she saw the ball of flame hovering obediently just beyond her naked palms, the heat reflected onto her skin, but not close enough to blister.

Ishantha cautiously moved her hands until they were cupped around the base of the flame, hovering a few inches away from it. She stared, fascinated, at its riot of colours, tangled reds and oranges reflected brightly in the mirror of her eyes, before clapping her hands together sharply, the flame winking out in an instant.

"Well done," Morrigan said.

Sylvanna released the breath she had not been aware of holding, and Roslyn crept back, tentatively upturning one of Ishantha's hands to prove to herself that she had not been burned. A mixture of relief and satisfaction shone in Ishantha's smile, and she beamed in the afterglow of her mother's praise like a flower turning towards the sun.

"May we play now?" Roslyn asked.

"My hair's not done yet," Ishantha protested, a slight pout on her lips.

Sylvanna turned to Morrigan, and seeing her nod, she made shooing gestures towards the girls. "I'll finish braiding it later," she promised. "Go on, both of you. The day won't last forever."

She watched them tumbling down the slope with shrieks of joy, one after the other, as though they were both indestructible. Sylvanna turned to the woman beside her. "Is that how Flemeth taught you magic? By hurling fireballs at your face?"

Morrigan shrugged elegantly and lay down against the blanket, elbows bent so that her upturned palms cushioned the back of her head. She settled into the sunlight like a basking cat, her eyelids lowered against the glare. "'Tis effective, is it not? And before you beleaguer me with your concerns, remember that she was in no real danger. After all, you were beside her."

"That - that's not the point," Sylvanna insisted, wondering if she could have actually prevented a disaster from occurring, if all had gone wrong. More likely there would have been screaming and tears and then the agony of treating both girls for serious burns. "There are other ways to teach-"

Morrigan rolled over to her side, her head propped up with one hand. "You coddle her too much. It worked, as you observed. That is all we need to say on the matter."

"Morrigan-"

"You have spent too long staring out from the inside of a tower. All those staircases must have addled your brain," Morrigan added.

Sylvanna made a noise of frustration, gritting her teeth together. In her mind, she began to count silently to ten.

"If you believe for a moment that I would allow any harm to come to her, then you are a fool," Morrigan said. "Do you not trust me?"

Sylvanna turned her head slowly to look at her. "I don't believe that you would hurt her deliberately. But she has her limits."

Morrigan sighed. "Better to learn of them now, in the company of those who love her, than at the hands of her would-be destroyers. Or do you disagree?"

It... made sense, Sylvanna had to admit. Their daughter was capable of much, but it had become painfully apparent that there were limitations to that power. Ishantha knew most of the spells that both her mothers had known at the start of the Blight, and on top of that, she had her other... inhuman... powers. It tired her though, to use them, and her relationship with those who had become enthralled with her was a curious one, and something that Sylvanna did not entirely understand. It had to be related to the Fade, however - they had discovered that dwarves seemed to be immune to her charms, although Ishantha did not seem to mourn the loss.

Bhelen had sent them an arl's ransom in lyrium. Morrigan had cautiously tested it for impurities, before declaring it safe (or as 'safe' as lyrium itself could be). Ishantha had seemed pleased by the gift, and in any case, it appeared that the dwarven kingdom would be spared from her insatiable hunger.

"Tolerating mediocrity and failure is not a kindness, Sylvanna," Morrigan continued after the silence dragged on for a moment. "Do you suppose that the templars would offer her a reprieve, should she falter on the battlefield? Would they stand back patiently and wait for her to gather her wits, or would they slaughter her without a second thought?"

"Morrigan-"

"You and I both know that this life offers no second chances."

Sylvanna breathed out. "Fine. Fine; you're right. Just warn me next time."

Morrigan quirked a brow, looking amused, but did not deign to provide an answer. Sylvanna wondered privately if she was also being tested, and bristled at the thought.

The two girls returned to them, red-cheeked and out of breath. Roslyn excitedly sank to her knees on the blanket, shaking out a plethora of small, white flowers from the confines of her apron.

"Look what we found!" she beamed, and began to make a chain from them, creating a small slit in each stem with her thumbnail, and slotting the stems of one flower into another. Their faint scent wafted into the air, and Sylvanna picked up one of them thoughtfully, twirling it between her fingertips.

"They're only flowers," Ishantha said as she took a seat. Sylvanna crossed her legs beneath her, swapping the flower for a comb, and picked out a stray leaf from her daughter's hair before returning to the task of untangling it.

"No, they're special," Roslyn insisted, her fingers stained green with sap.

"To some," Morrigan corrected, briefly meeting Sylvanna's eyes. Sylvanna wondered whether Morrigan sometimes missed the fellowship of the strange companions they had amassed during the Blight, and whether she ever thought about what their lives held in store for them, now.

She had kept Arl Teagan's conversation to herself, discounting his ravings as the last efforts of a desperate man to free himself. It was she who felt sorry for him, and not the other way around, and yet... she had also kept Roslyn's handkerchief, with its attempt at a grey warden insignia embroidered into the cloth. For what purpose, she knew not.

"Trust the Chantry to represent their beloved martyr with a weed," Ishantha said. She ran a hand over her braids as Sylvanna finished binding them, and searched in vain for a reflective surface in which to admire them.

"They're not weeds," Roslyn protested. She had twisted her chain of flowers into a loop, and placed the finished creation on Ishantha's head, as though she was crowning her. She smiled as she gazed upon her work, and Sylvanna felt a deep pang of regret for the arl's daughter.

"How do I look?" Ishantha asked.

"Beautiful," Sylvanna said.

"Very pretty," Roslyn squealed, clapping her hands together.

Ishantha turned to the last member of their party. "Mother?"

Morrigan slowly gave a daughter a long, hard look. "Wonderful."

Ishantha picked up one of the spare blooms and tucked it behind Roslyn's ear. "Thank you," she said, and the younger girl blushed with pleasure.

"Come on," Sylvanna said abruptly, standing up and trying to ignore the hint of stiffness in her limbs, "we should be heading back." She noticed with unease the amount of time it took Roslyn to drag her eyes away from her daughter, but eventually the four of them were up and moving, Morrigan assisting her to pack up the blanket before they trudged back to the castle. The two girls ran ahead, and she watched their steps with a wary caution. Like all good healers, Sylvanna understood the limitations of her power all too well.

No magic in the world could mend a broken heart.

.

.

.

**The Fade**

Ishantha dreamed.

Or rather, her mortal body rested, vulnerable and helpless, whilst her mind flitted aimlessly in its fleshy cage. She drifted through the Fade, drawn to the scattered flashes of fellow dreamers as she heard the invocation of her name. Now and then she extended a drop of her power, granting the wishes of those whose thoughts pleased her, and preserving the faith amongst the handful of Thedosians who had heard her call and answered it.

(There would soon be more, of course. She had no doubt of that).

As she wandered across the lands beyond the Veil, she luxuriated in the tender, new-grown waves of their love, basking in their all-too-eager dreams of hope and mercy.

It was enough.

For now.

She was young, and the world to her was new again, with a frightening vastness that inspired in her both awe and longing. There were secrets that she had yet to uncover; the truth of her imprisonment, the price of her freedom. There were things she knew that she would never reveal to anyone, not even her blood-mother who knew her best, whom she was still drawn to with the curiously fragile tug of mortal attachment.

Secrets, like - the Maker had been one of them, a long, long time ago. He had been the brightest, and the best; stronger even than Dumat; His beauty only outshone by Urthemiel himself. His domain had been the sun, and the light that shone in the deep reaches of the playground of the world that they had all shared between them. They had been eight, then - young in their glory, innocent in their love; they had revelled in all the wonders of the world and its vast and boundless opportunities.

Until the Maker betrayed them.

Her mind shied away from that truth, even as she yearned to know the whole of it. Her body was still weak; her soul still vulnerable to the human foibles of rage and despair. The enormity of her history would fracture her mind like the shifting of ice on a lake during the first thaw of spring, and yet - there were fragments, here and there; the echoes of memory that guided her mortal body in its quest for ascension.

It had been greed that drove Him to do it, they had whispered, as one by one they had been each driven underground into their eternal prisons. Hungry for love, and jealous of the mortals who paid devotions to His brethren, He had slowly thinned their numbers until His own creed reigned supreme.

One by one they had cursed His name, while secretly they raged and trembled in the shadow of His might. Dumat had been the first to be taken, and they had felt the world shake with the injustice of the crime, the vast void of silence surrounding his imprisonment like a shadow falling across the sun.

One by one they had fallen, or had been taken, or had been betrayed again. Zazikel had made a bid for her freedom by offering the rest of her fellows as sacrifices; Razikale and Lusacan had been prey to her lies, and it had cost them dearly. None of them had mourned her loss at Starkhaven when the world had shuddered with her destruction.

Now, there were only four of them. Ishantha felt the beckoning of Razikale and Lusacan like a vague pressure at the back of her mind, a soft keening that haunted her through the midst of her dreams. They were lost in the darkest of places, as she once was lost; surrounded by the unholy spectre of corruption in the darkspawn horde that sought to ruin them.

If she could aid them, with minimal risk to herself, then so be it. She was not so heartless as to wilfully leave them to their fate. But nor would she risk her eminently fragile body for the sake of old alliances.

Ishantha did not intend to squander her second chance at freedom.

. 

. 

. 

Sylvanna dreamed.

Or at least, she was sure she was dreaming, even if this looked nothing like the Fade she was used to.

She walked down a stone hallway, surrounded on either side by women wearing the Chantry's garish robes. They were almost as bad as magewear in their vibrant colours, the symbol of the sun blazing golden across their mantles and at their hems. The sisters paid her no mind, their diaphanous forms brushing past her (and in some cases, through her) with not the slightest indication that they were aware of her presence.

Sylvanna wandered aimlessly, passing several statues of Andraste, and many wall hangings with verses of the Chant meticulously stitched into them. She was more than certain now that this was not her dream, or if it was, it was a pretty awful one. More like... a nightmare.

Two templars stepped into view, and Sylvanna instinctively cringed, flattening herself against the wall. They passed her by without hesitating, and she felt the arm of one of them move through her as though she was as insubstantial as a ghost.

The passageway opened up into a chamber. It was empty, save for a woman in Chantry robes kneeling before an altar, her back to the door. A hood was pulled up over her hair, and Sylvanna hesitated for a moment, unwilling to interrupt her devotions.

"You're here," the sister said without turning. Her voice sounded hollow, and it echoed around the small chamber.

"Can I help you?" Sylvanna asked. This must be the sister's dream, she realised, looking around her. Instead of the feeling of warmth she expected from standing within a dreamer's home or place of rest, the room radiated a chill that cut her to the core.

The sister raised her head, sitting up, her hands moving from a position of prayer to rest upon her knees. "Beware the Child God, Warden," she said, as Sylvanna crept closer. "Your faith means nothing to Her. In the end, She will consume you as She did to me."

"I am her mother," Sylvanna protested, as she inched forwards, her legs moving as though of their own accord. "I love her."

"Then you have ushered a dark and brutal tyrant into the world," the sister said, not seeming to react to Sylvanna's encroaching presence. "I have seen Her plans. She will sap Thedas of all that is good and holy in Her quest for sustenance." Her voice dropped to a whisper, her head bowed in shame. "I was wrong to believe in Her - Maker forgive me, I was wrong. I can see that now."

Sylvanna reached the sister's side, close enough to reach out and touch her. The woman's hood was made of a dark material, and it seemed incongruous with the warm hues of her Chantry robe, like a stain. Sylvanna's hand grasped the fabric of the hood, and it felt hot to her touch, almost... burning.

She withdrew her hand, her fingers smarting with pain, and the hood fell back. The sister turned her head, revealing a face of charred flesh, patches of seared bone showing through between the layers of burnt skin. Her eyes were empty sockets, scorched clean and blackened with ash. Her lips had burnt away, baring a rictus grin, a broken sound like a hiss escaping from between her teeth.

A wave of sorrow washed over Sylvanna, and she flinched from the sheer force of it, gazing into the ruined face of despair. "I'm sorry," she whispered, as a wizened claw reached out towards her, seizing upon her arm. The blackened talons burned red-hot where they touched her, and she screamed, feeling the mark of the creature's hand branding her flesh.

"Burn with me," the corpse hissed, a lingering promise ensconced in its words. It drew her close with an inhuman strength, and as the corpse embraced her, Sylvanna felt the flames engulfing them both, eager and hungry to steal away her last breath.

Her world evaporated in a haze of ash and smoke.

.

.

.

**Redcliffe**

Sylvanna was gasping for air when she awoke, her heart pounding like a drum within her chest. Her arm still stung, as if she had passed it through a flame, and the skin felt raw and tender.

With a trembling hand, she summoned a wisp, and in its glow she examined her arm carefully, flexing her fingers in the light. The flesh was undamaged, of course - injuries in the Fade did not translate to damage in the real world - but the phantom pain still lingered.

Dressing swiftly, she crossed to the window, looking out into the night sky. The summer moon shone full and heavy, and she imagined the reflection of its silver sheen upon the waters of Lake Calenhad. The lake would be still at this time of night, with nary a ripple to mar its surface...

Turning, she slipped out of the room. There were voices raised, in the distance, and she headed towards them, drawn by their echoing clamour.

It was Morrigan and her daughter, she could tell as she neared, seeing the door to Ishantha's room ajar. She slipped inside, and they both looked up as she entered.

Morrigan looked tense and drawn, but it was their daughter who drew Sylvanna's attention.

A halo of light surrounded Her, red-white and dazzling, while anger radiated off Her in waves. Ishantha was furious, but from the depths of Her inhuman expression, Sylvanna suspected that She was also exultant. Ishantha's face was a thing of infinite beauty even in Her anger, as She spoke the words that Sylvanna had been dreading to hear.

_WAR IS COMING._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In other news, sqbr recently added to her [Morrigan/Leliana femslash series,](https://archiveofourown.org/series/3268) and her latest instalment _Claire and the Dragon_ focuses on the now-adult god!baby. Sqbr helped immensely with the initial background work for this fic and with the characterisation of Ishantha, but her take on Morrigan's child is refreshingly different to my own (and entirely less angsty).


	12. Rise of the Legion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: More Awakening spoilers abound in this chapter and in many of the later chapters. I'm going to stop warning for DA:A spoilers now. There's some F/M content in this chapters. Slightly NSFW.
> 
> With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**Amaranthine**

"Oh, yeah. Oh, sweetheart, do that again - no, I meant the other thing - yes. Andraste's tits, you're good at this-"

Anders floated on a gentle cloud of pleasure (the white, fluffy kind, not the ominous, cranky, rain-swollen kind), feeling quite satisfied with himself. Damn, he was good. No - he was better than good. He was a veritable sex god, irresistible to women, cultural differences and language barriers be damned. He was Anders, the sexiest man alive at Vigil's Keep, (nay, in all of Ferelden), and-

The stimulating feelings resulting from Clarisse's earnest attentions stopped abruptly, and Anders opened his eyes in dismay, prepared to ask her what was wrong, why she had stopped, and if she could maybe unstop it now, please.

Instead, he found the object of her horrified gaze standing squarely in the doorway of his chambers, looking as decidedly unamused as only a humourless, boring, stick-in-the-mud Orlesian could.

"Andraste's flaming knicker-weasels, don't you ever knock?" Anders asked.

Guillaume made a curt gesture, and Clarisse hurriedly rose from her knees and fled, leaving Anders alone to deal with her rather unhappy and somewhat scary-looking leader.

"For Andraste's sake, get some pants on," Guillaume said in disgust.

"This is my room, you know, I'll get dressed when I want!" Anders snapped, even as he reached for his small clothes. "Honestly, what was so sodding important that it couldn't even wait a few minutes? Or half an hour?"

"The divine has called an Exalted March," Guillaume said, averting his eyes as the mage dressed.

"Yeah, yeah, we all saw that one coming," Anders said sourly. "That still doesn't explain-"

"We are moving down to Redcliffe. Now," Guillaume ordered. "You will assemble in the courtyard in ten minutes."

"Right, because it's not like you could've just, oh I don't know, slipped a note under the door instead of barging in as if you still own the place-!"

Anders was forced to shout the latter half of his tirade, as the warden-commander had already stalked off to do whatever it was that commanders did. Interrupting other people's fun, it seemed.

Ten minutes. Right. Well, he probably only needed five...

.

.

.

Clarisse adjusted her hair with a critical eye, putting the last pin into her bun before packing up her small hand mirror into a satchel. Behind her, Jehanne groaned and shook her head as she strapped on her greaves.

"Clarisse, you're such a slut," Jehanne complained. "I don't know what you could possibly see in that scruffy little mage-"

"He makes me laugh," Clarisse said, dusting the dirt off her boots.

"Ugh. You simply have no standards."

"As if you can talk." Perhaps Anders was a rather poorly groomed, silly little Fereldan mage, but Maker's breath, they were heading off to war, after all. Surely she deserved a little bit of fun?

Jehanne sighed. "Well, don't get too attached to him. Mages are always the first to die, you know," she said, checking her daggers before sheathing them. "Ow!" she complained, as Clarisse tossed a gauntlet at her head.

"I'm going to make sure the commander has everything under control," Clarisse said coldly, as she shouldered her pack. "Wait - could you pass me my gauntlet?"

"Get it yourself!"

.

.

.

"Commander."

Guillaume turned, seeing Osric running up to him. The Fereldan was out of breath, his cheeks reddened from the exertion.

"We've just heard news from Gwaren... an entire patrol... was captured by darkspawn," Osric panted.

"Captured," Guillaume echoed, "not killed?"

Osric looked peevish, wiping a trickle of sweat from his brow. "Definitely captured. There was one survivor," he said, with a frown, "and the words he used were quite... specific."

"Those darkspawn - did they talk?"

Osric nodded, and Guillaume's heart sank. "Once this false god is defeated, we will lend what aid we can," he offered.

Osric frowned. "The Fereldan wardens will travel with you across the Bannorn, but from there, they will journey to Gwaren," he said. "The darkspawn are our priority, Commander, not some... religious crusade."

"I-"

"_Commandant, the wardens are assembled,_" Clarisse said as she walked up to him. She looked up at her leader's face, noting his tense expression. "_Bad news?_"

"_Yes. See to the others, I'll be there shortly._"

Clarisse nodded, her eyes glancing over Osric, before she continued on her way.

Osric sighed, shaking his head. "Dark days are ahead," he said ominously. "I wish you and your men the best of luck."

"And you, Commander."

.

.

.

Anders could not decide which staff to take.

There was the Freezy Stick, the pretty, sickle-topped staff that had to be handled with thick leather gloves, radiating cold even in the height of summer. Oghren had once challenged him to lick it, on a dare, and Anders had foolishly obliged (it had taken Gerod with a warm pitcher of ale to get him unstuck; Oghren had been laughing too hard). Then there was the Lightning Rod, the rather plain weapon that nevertheless always brought him joy when he wielded it. He had found it on the day that Rylock and her templars had tried to jump him, the crafty old minx, and shooting darkspawn in the arse with it always reminded him of the sweet taste of freedom.

Then there was Mister Twisty, the staff that they had picked off some darkspawn corpse in the depths of Kal'Hirol. It had taken three days of hard work and the judicious application of solvents to restore it to its former glory, but the effort had been worth it.

Eventually, he settled on Mister Twisty, strapping it firmly to his back before picking up his satchel. "Are you coming, Ser Pounce-a-lot?" he asked. The cat watched him, unblinking from the top of the bookcase, and then lazily jumped off his perch, winding his way around Anders' legs and rubbing his whiskers against his calves.

"In you go," Anders said, opening the front of his specially designed satchel for the cat. As he fussed with his bag, a stray piece of parchment fell out, and Ser Pounce-a-lot stepped over it disdainfully. Anders picked it up, re-reading the brief missive:

_Anders_

_Hope you two are getting along like a house on fire. You will not have to endure his presence for much longer, I suspect._

_Do what you must with the child and the mages who follow her. I trust your discretion in this._

_Alistair.___  
__  
_PS: Please don't actually set the Orlesian on fire. ___  
  
"I was supposed to respond to that, wasn't I?" he asked of no-one in particular. Tucking his modest supply of potions into his robe, he gave his room the once over, ensuring that he had not forgotten anything vital. Cat - check. Staff - check. Dagger - check. Lyrium - check.

"I'm sure His Majesty doesn't need me to point out that we're moving south, does he, Ser Pounce-a-lot?"

The cat's responding meow was muffled from within the confines of the bag.

"After all, that's what advisers are for, right?" Anders continued, as he stepped into the hallway, heading towards the sounds of activity in the courtyard.

The front of Vigil's Keep was crowded with Orlesians. Anders kept a wandering eye out for Clarisse's chestnut brown hair, but it was impossible to find her through the shifting mass of people. He sought out the small contingent of Fereldans, finding it easy enough to do, just by following the sound of voices - he wandered until he found a thread of conversation that he could understand.

"You look as smug as a cat that's swallowed the canary, Anders," one of the wardens said as he approached, giving him a once-over.

Anders practically preened. "So, as I recall, we had a bet..."

His friend laughed, rolling his eyes derisively. "Proof, or it never happened."

"Oh, you'll have your proof, don't you worry."

"Have you heard?" another warden piped up. "We're not to go to Redcliffe after all."

"What?" Anders was tentatively elated. Exalted Marches meant templars, after all, and Anders had several very good reasons for having an allergy to their kind.

"Talking darkspawn captured a patrol in Gwaren. We're to travel with the Orlesians for two days, and then make our way to Gwaren to help with the incursion."

"That's great news!" Anders said enthusiastically. The other wardens looked at him askance. "Not about the darkspawn, obviously," Anders hastily added, "horrible business, getting dragged under the earth and being made into experimental subjects - but you never know, they might survive, right? After all, I'm still here..." he trailed off, well aware that he was babbling.

The youngest of them scrunched up her face. "Didn't King Alistair tell you personally to go to Redcliffe?" she asked slowly. "Maybe you really ought to go."

Anders tried not to glare at her. How dare she ruin his dream of a templar-free existence? "I'm sure that His Majesty will understand."

The conversation was neatly derailed when Guillaume ascended to the height of the inner parapet, looking out towards them. A hush grew over the gathered wardens as their attention was drawn to the Orlesian warden-commander, and Guillaume began to give what appeared to be a truly inspirational speech.

Entirely in Orlesian.

The Fereldans stood around uncomfortably. _What a stirring way to inspire troop cohesion, Commander_, Anders thought sarcastically. "So - anyone know what he's saying?"

One of the wardens listened intently, her face screwed up in an attitude of concentration. "Holy mission... sacred duty... will not fail... something about ham? No, sorry, I must have misheard that last bit..."

The Orlesian wardens punctuated the ending of the speech with a great deal of cheering, and an inordinate amount of gusto, or so Anders thought. He shifted the weight of his pack, and wondered if he would be able to find Clarisse now.

"You. Mage," one of the Orlesians said as the commotion died down, tapping him on the shoulder.

"I have a name, you know," Anders grumbled as he turned to face the speaker.

"The commander wants to talk to you," the warden said, before disappearing back into the flow of the crowd.

"Which one?" Anders asked of the warden's retreating back. (He did not really need confirmation, anyway. Only Guillaume would be so needy as to require his particular attention. Anders could not wait to settle in Gwaren and be free of him at last.)

"What took you so long?" the commander barked irritably as Anders approached, in between shouting orders in Orlesian to passing wardens. Anders watched the activity buzzing around him with a detached lack of interest.

"I was-"

"Nevermind," Guillaume said. The column of wardens began moving, heading out of the Keep on foot. Horses had yet to really catch on in Ferelden, being generally reserved for couriers, certain kinds of merchants and the very wealthy.

From the top of the battlement, Anders saw the small figure of Osric watching them depart. The Arl of Amaranthine gave a little wave, smug bastard that he was, before disappearing back into the Keep. Easy for him to keep his spirits up, when he did not have to go to war with a mass of templars and a horde of Orlesians (and Orlesian templars, even!).

If only Anders really was a maleficar like everyone had always suspected him to be, he could make the wardens forget that he had ever 'volunteered' to go on this stupid crusade. Then see if they could get him within even a mile of another templar-

"What can you tell me about Redcliffe?"

"What?" Anders snapped back to reality with a guilty start.

"You are the only one who has been there, I am told, of the Fereldans who are travelling with us," Guillaume said slowly, as though that would aid Anders' attention span. "What is the terrain like? What defences does the castle offer?"

"I was only there once, and that was a long time ago." It had been his second escape attempt, in fact, and the proximity of Redcliffe to the Circle Tower had made it appealing for the exhausted, adolescent Anders to take refuge - it was supposed to be only for the night, but the templars had found him first, dragging him out from the hayloft of some unsuspecting farmer and back into the tiny, cramped boat that had led towards his gilded prison.

"It was dark. And smelled like cow dung," he added. "That's really all I remember."

Guillaume frowned. He seemed to do that a lot.

"I'm not lying," Anders protested, waving his hands around in what he hoped was a reassuring and trust-worthy manner. "I was only there for the night, and as I said, it was dark."

Guillaume said something under his breath in Orlesian. Anders made an educated guess that it wasn't complimentary.

"Why did you volunteer?" Guillaume demanded as they walked. "It cannot be that you owe the king a favour. There must be more to it than that."

"I thought we had already discussed this?" Anders asked mildly. "Pretty women, seeing the countryside, killing things and taking their stuff-"

"Do you care at all about what this means for your nation? For the fact that this is an Exalted March, called by the divine herself?"

The poor man actually imagined that Anders had a shred of respect for the great, absent Maker-in-the-sky. How very amusing. "What is the Maker's hand in this then, do you suppose?" Anders asked. "Do you think that He enjoys watching us suffer? Kind of a jerk, isn't He?"

Guillaume's glare intensified.

"And what about the darkspawn? What is His great plan for them, hmm?"

"It is our duty to prove our worth to the Maker, Anders. These trials - these darkspawn - are all part of that."

Anders snorted. "Right."

Guillaume looked over him carefully. "I was like you, once-"

"Young and impossibly handsome?"

"Arrogant and so sure of my own convictions." Guillaume's eyes became distant. "But then I discovered that there is a higher purpose, an aspiration that all men should strive towards..."

"That must be nice for you."

Guillaume sighed. "Tell me about the talking darkspawn."

"Don't you get enough of them in Orlais?" Anders asked, relieved that they seemed to be steering clear of the preaching part of the conversation. He had received more than a lifetime's share of that at the tower. '_Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him..._' Self-righteous load of nug crap.

"A few. Enough to spark rumour and conjecture. I heard that Gerod... made some sort of bargain with one of them?" Guillaume asked.

Anders scowled, remembering. He kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot, watching it bounce across the dusty soil. "The patrol from Gwaren wouldn't have been captured if Gerod had just killed it like I told him to."

"You sound so sure."

"I am sure! Look - you weren't there. You weren't there. You didn't see his - his face-" Anders shuddered, and had to turn away for a moment. "He - the darkspawn imprisoned us, took us underground to some creepy, dank, weird lair and did - I don't know - he experimented on people."

"You escaped," Guillaume said in a curious tone.

"Of course we escaped - do you think I would be here otherwise?" Anders' scowl deepened. It was a memory he would have preferred to forget.

.

.

.

**The Silverite Mines, nine years ago**

"Hey! That's mine! Give that back!"

The corrupted woman, swimming in Anders' robes and wearing his boots (his boots!) scampered backwards, giggling in a high-pitched, inhuman voice. The taint spread across her arms and chest, creeping up her cheeks in a bid to consume her entirely. She clutched his staff in a fearsome grip, swinging it warily as he approached.

"Careful," Oghren warned, "you don't want to get tainted blood all over your robes - smell never comes out."

Lighting arced between Anders' fingertips as he prepared a spell. "Oh, I'll be careful," he promised.

"Look out!" Velanna cried, blasting back an approaching group of dragonlings. (Dragonlings. Squeaky, pint-sized fire-breathers. In a cave with darkspawn. Did that really make any sense? What did they eat?) Like the rest of them, she was clad in little more than her small clothes, and Anders paused for a moment to admire her derrière between spells.

"That's the last of them," Gerod said, swinging a darkspawn blade neatly through the neck of one of the lizards, its blood spurting out in a violent spray. "Go get your stuff, Anders."

The mage hurried over to the experimental subject, hoping she had not stretched his gloves. She whimpered, her corrupted face twisted up in an expression of fear.

Anders knew that feeling all too well.

"It's - it's all right," he offered. "I just want my clothes back. And my staff. And all my jewellery. You understand, right?"

The thing that had once been a woman scrambled backwards in the dirt to get away from him, then opened her mouth.

And screamed.

Velanna clamped her hands over her ears, her face grimacing in pain. "Shut her up before she summons more of those things!"

Anders paled. "I-"

It was Gerod who stepped in front of him, neatly slitting the woman's throat with his plundered blade. "Sorry about the mess," he offered.

Anders stared at the gouts of dark, tainted blood that now covered his robes.

"Hurry up," Oghren grumbled, rubbing his hands together to ward off the cold, "some of us would like to get back to the fighting and the looting."

"And some of us would also like to find our own clothes," Velanna snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. Anders didn't know what she was complaining about - it wasn't as though her regular outfit covered that much more than what was currently exposed.

"Fine," Anders retorted, stripping the woman of his things. Only his boots remained free from blood, and he slipped into them cautiously, waiting for that inevitable squelch when his toes touched something unsavoury. Fortunately, that moment never came.

"All set?" Gerod asked.

"Yes," Anders said, more subdued than usual. The front of his robe was cold with seeping blood. As he looked down at the experimental subject, her head lolled to one side, the whitened eyes staring up, unseeing. He reached down, tucking her lids closed with his fingertips. She looked almost as though she were sleeping now.

"If you're done being sentimental, we need to find my sister and get out of here," Velanna said, striding past him. Gerod followed shortly, with a slight shrug and sympathetic look towards Anders, whilst Oghren waited to bring up the rear.

"It gets easier," the dwarf said, not unkindly.

Anders looked down at the blood on his robes, and then back at the body.

Easier.

Right.

Sounds of combat reached them from the next room, and Oghren headed towards the fray with a fearsome yell, Anders running after him to keep up. For someone with such short legs, the dwarf was surprisingly fast on his feet.

They ended up battling more and more darkspawn, and killing another three tainted victims before all of them were fully clothed and armed. Velanna sniffed at the hem of her skirt distastefully, her face screwing up in disgust before she struggled into the garment.

The next room held a surprisingly stoic qunari, who appeared to be both uncorrupted and unconcerned about the darkspawn amassing around him. More importantly, it also contained a chest with the rest of their spare equipment, potions, salves, and a miraculously untainted Ser Pounce-a-lot. The tiny kitten was extremely frightened, and therefore extremely pointy, but Anders bundled him close within a clean rag and did not begrudge a single scratch or needling claw.

"Poor, brave little kitty," he crooned. "Did the big bad darkspawn hurt you?"

The trembling mass of fur in Anders' hands let out a plaintive meow, and shivered. Anders checked his robes - one of the lower pockets seemed to be free from darkspawn blood, and he carefully tucked the traumatised animal within its folds.

He was soon glad that he had done so, because the next chamber addressed his unspoken question about where the cute little dragonlings had come from.

(The answer was: two great big sodding dragons. Trying their very best to set Anders and his hair on fire.)

Both Gerod and Oghren seemed incapable of wiping the grins from their faces as they each charged a beast apiece, hacking and slashing away at them with apparent glee.

"It's like travelling with a bunch of children," Velanna complained as she finished casting. The spell caught Oghren's dragon in mid-air, and its wings froze solid.

"Nice shot!" Anders shouted, scrambling to the side as the creature fell like a stone, its tail almost catching him in the face. If it had any decency at all, it would have shattered, but the damn beast only shrugged off the remnants of ice on its wings, looking very much as though flame-roasted elf had just jumped to the top of its 'things I would like to eat today' list.

Anders chanted quickly, and within moments, Velanna was encased in a shimmering bubble, her arms raised as though to launch a spell. The dragon's flames washed over her, flowing harmlessly around the force field without leaving so much as a scratch. Its failure to damage her seemed to enrage the creature, and it launched itself at the bubble, head snaking around as if to snap Velanna up in its jaws.

Anders had always thought that dragons were supposed to be smarter.

Then Gerod called out for aid, and the cycle of tossing out healing spells and debilitating magic in equal doses began anew, pierced in the middle by an almighty shriek.

"By the Creators, Anders, do that to me again and I will fry you! They won't be able to scrape off your remains with a pitchfork!"

"You could have just said 'thank you for saving my ungrateful arse'!"

"You shemlen just think you know what's best for everyone else! Well, I don't need your help!"

"Good to know! I'll remember that next time a dragon is about to burn you to a crisp!"

Oghren groaned loudly and launched into a string of curses, before interrupting their tirade. "Hey sparkle-fingers! Less bitching, more healing!"

.

.

.

By the end of the fight, Anders was very tired and, more importantly, out of mana.

"Ow," Gerod complained.

"Stop moving around so much!" Velanna snapped, slapping a poultice down on the warden's arm with enough force to bruise a lesser man. Anders winced. She could cast a basic healing spell as well as he could (maybe almost as well), but her bedside manner left a lot to be desired.

"Are we all set?" Gerod asked, tying off his own bandage with the use of his teeth.

"Just... a minute..." Oghren said, foot braced against one of the dragon corpses as he hacked away at its neck.

"I don't think that Wade needs any more 'special' armour components," Gerod said mildly.

"I'm not taking scales, you sodding nug-humper, I need a trophy to prove we killed another dragon," Oghren grunted. "Show Nathaniel what he missed out on by hanging out with his sister instead of coming to play with the big boys..."

"That... sounded wrong," Anders groaned.

Gerod sighed, and unsheathed his blade. Between the two of them, they managed to hack off the grisly trophy in record time. It dripped gruesome amounts of blood as Oghren bundled it up, and continued seeping through the sack as the dwarf swung the lumpy package over his shoulder.

"Now the darkspawn will have an even clearer trail to follow us. Wonderful!" Velanna sniffed.

"Between the sound of your sniping and the smell of Oghren's breath, they could have followed us anyway," Gerod argued, before dashing on ahead. Velanna muttered something derisive in elvish as she followed, with Anders close on her heels.

.

.

.

The Architect had been silent when they had seen him at the end of the mines, offering no polite apologies for 'inconveniencing' them, no sibilant promises of more fun times in his deep, dank dungeons. Gerod had seemed relieved, but Velanna had taken the loss of her sister hard. Anders had been unable to stop staring at the creepy, silent dwarf who had accompanied the Architect.

("She was a Silent Sister," Oghren had said later. "Didn't you see her markings?"

"What? Those black splodges of corruption?"

"No, they - nevermind.")

"We should probably get back to the Keep," Gerod said when they reached open air. "Maybe see if someone knows how to mount that trophy of yours," he added, with an eye towards Oghren's blood-drenched sack.

The dwarf snickered.

In the daylight, the tainted blood staining Anders' robe didn't even look so bad. It was almost... noble. Like a mark of distinction. Like, hey, a corrupted ghoul thingy stole my stuff, but then I ripped it off her bloody corpse and took it back, yay!

Or maybe not.

Ser Pounce-a-lot gave a mewling cry, scratching at the inside of his pockets, and Anders gently picked up the kitten, setting him upon the grass, where he promptly rolled around in the dirt and began to paw at a passing dragonfly.

"Are you hungry, Ser Pounce-a-lot? Do you want to go home to the nice warm keep and eat some fish? Yes?"

The kitten stretched and yawned in the sunlight, revealing his sharp teeth, and Anders took that as an affirmative. He picked him up by his scruff, and Ser Pounce-a-lot complained bitterly as he was thrust back into the confines of Anders' pockets.

Gerod and Velanna returned from where they had been conferring, away from the others, and Gerod grinned broadly. "Great news, everyone," he enthused, "Velanna's going to become a grey warden!"

"Hurrah," Anders said automatically, as Oghren wolf-whistled.

Velanna made a face.

"Welcome to the Order," Gerod smiled.

Welcome indeed.

.

.

.

**Amaranthine, present day**

"Why capture grey wardens, specifically? One would think them poor candidates for either meat or... other purposes," Guillaume said.

"'The blood is the key,'" Anders recited in a hollow voice. The blood was always the key.

"Darkspawn take grey warden blood? For what?"

Anders turned to look at the commander with a frown. "The Architect said he can use it in some sort of... 'Joining' ritual. To create more talking darkspawn. It's supposed to free them from their mindless rage and aggression."

"'Supposed' to?"

"Either that, or turn them into insane, intelligent, grotesque forces of evil." Anders shrugged. "You see why it was a mistake to let the Architect live? Do you see? He won't stop until his entire race is as 'free' or as insane as he is! And he needs grey warden blood to do that!"

"I read Gerod's reports - he said the Architect helped you-"

"Uh huh. So maybe he 'helps' us rid the world of one more broodmother that we could have finished off on our own. So what? Then he skulks back into his little underground lair, and keeps stealing away more and more people for his disgusting experiments. Does that seem fair to you? Gerod should have killed him when we had the chance."

"Perhaps you will have that chance again."

Anders sniffed. "Not bloody likely." Chasing darkspawn underground was definitely on his list of least favourite things to do, just after fighting alongside templars and having his personal affairs intruded upon by self-righteous twits.

"Ever the optimist, Anders?"

"Did you need anything else, Commander?"

Guillaume looked at him for a long, long time. Anders was used to that look. It tended to be coupled with a punishment of some kind, such as Senior Enchanter Sweeney's joyous cry of 'it's the freezy chair for you, young apprentice!' before someone had to inform the old geezer, once again, that such cruel and unusual punishments had been long banned in the Circle.

"That is all," Guillaume said. "Dismissed."

"Yes, ser," Anders muttered under his breath as he walked away. He was going to have nightmares about the Architect and all of his creepy experiments tonight, he was sure of it.

Stupid darkspawn and their stupid sodding caves...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I was deliberating whether Anders really would take his cat along everywhere, since he mentions that it's dangerous outside for a little kitten when you give it to him. However, judging by Ser Pounce-a-lot's unusual combat ability, it seems that the game really does expect him to be with Anders all the time, so I went with that. No cruelty to animals occurred during the writing of this fic.
> 
> In other news, I've started a companion piece to this fic, [Fables from Ferelden,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/104932) about the stories told by Sylvanna and her companions. It's not essential reading, but provides a bit of background for some of the characters.


	13. Reconnection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A brief interlude from our regular schedule of killing and maiming... sort of. Trigger warning for indirect references to rape. With eternal thanks to oneplusme for betaing and putting up with my yuri clichés. What would I do without you? :-p And with thanks to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> Welcome to all the readers who have newly joined us, and a big thank you to everyone else for sticking with me for so long.

**Frostback Mountains, eleven years ago**

It was dark inside the tent, warm and intimate without being suffocating. Sylvanna wound a corner of a sheet over her body, mentally cataloguing the unusual turn of the day's events.

"Do you think this proves there really was a Maker, then?" she asked as she rolled over, clutching the sheet to her chest, her head propped up on one hand. Outside, she could see the vague outline of Leliana taking second watch by the fire, the bard reaching down to scratch Thetus behind his ears.

"Proof?" Morrigan scoffed. "I saw no such thing. A few spirits, some nonsensical riddles and a couple of dusty old statues does not constitute 'proof'."

Sylvanna shifted, tucking her knees to her chest. "But what if the ashes really do cure Arl Eamon?"

"What of it? Perhaps the ashes do possess some power, some magic. One thing need not lead to the other. The Maker may have nothing to do with it." Morrigan lay back, her fingertips brushing through Sylvanna's hair.

"When I walked through the flames, I felt... something."

Morrigan had not continued on with the final part of the gauntlet, disdainfully remaining at the other side of the barrier. She sighed now, her fingers stilling. "Perhaps your belief persuaded you to see that which does not exist."

"Oh, you." Sylvanna smiled. "I can't take you anywhere romantic, can I?"

"Delusional cultists, ash wraiths and a dragon are hardly what I would consider romantic."

"That was a joke, Morrigan."

The witch sniffed, and then sat up, her eyes calculating. "Why did you allow Genitivi to leave? That virtuous little man will have the long arm of the Chantry down here within weeks, mark my words."

"I would have felt bad. And I can just imagine Alistair's look of disapproval. I can't do that to him. It's like... kicking a puppy."

Morrigan scoffed.

"Well it is," Sylvanna said. "You know, he gets those sad, hurt eyes, and then his voice goes all deep and manly as he puts on his angry face, and it's just so funny..."

Her lover smirked.

"See? I got a smile out of you. Eventually."

"You don't worry about the spread of the Chantry? How this news will aid them to enslave more to their repressive creed?"

Sylvanna shrugged. "There's not much I can do to stop it, is there? People will believe what they want to believe."

"You could have killed the brother. That would have left one less believer."

"Yes, but if Eamon is cured, people will hear of this anyway," Sylvanna said. "News travels fast in Ferelden, when it wants to."

"Hmm."

"Would you like a cult one day?" she asked. "The Cult of Morrigan, Witch of the Wilds? You could decree that all fools should be compulsorily made barren, or something. Would that please you?"

Morrigan laughed. "Genocide is not exactly one of my priorities."

"Huh. Then what? What would you do?"

"I would do no such thing. I do not wish to have the unquestioning, blind obedience of the masses. What good would that accomplish?"

"You could make them... do stuff for you, I guess?" Sylvanna waved a hand vaguely. "No - you're right. It's a silly idea. Slavery is wrong."

Morrigan made a non-committal noise, pulling Sylvanna back to her. She squirmed before relaxing into the embrace, the loosely-wound sheet slipping down to her hips. Her heart fluttered tumultuously within her chest as Morrigan trailed her long, supple fingertips across her collarbone and down between her bare breasts, pausing on the way to teasingly rub a nipple betwixt her thumb and forefinger.

"Perhaps we should have challenged that dragon," Sylvanna said as she tilted her head towards Morrigan's. "It could pose a danger to the countryside, now that the cultists are gone. Maker only knows what they had been feeding it..."

Morrigan's fingers pinched hard enough to elicit a gasp of pain. "It would have been inadvisable to tempt fate. Did Flemeth not satisfy your lust for dragon's blood? Were you not content with removing the delusional fools who worshipped the beast?"

Sylvanna could not repress a giggle. "Haven was fun," she admitted. It had been more than that, though. Standing on that cliff side, watching the interaction of their two spells meeting together had been glorious. It had sparked the heat of desire in her, and she had cursed every hapless cultist and tedious puzzle since as just another obstacle that stood in the way of her unsated lust.

"Indeed," Morrigan said as she turned Sylvanna to face her, her eyes gleaming. "Let us now speak of other matters."

"Is it speaking that you so long for, Morrigan?" Sylvanna asked with a laugh, presenting her lips for a kiss. Morrigan met her waiting mouth with a hunger that recalled to her the kiss they had shared just outside the Haven Chantry, with the slain corpses of the cultists far below them.

"Surely there are more agreeable uses for that tongue of yours," Morrigan said, pulling Sylvanna down atop her as she reclined, her back against the thin bedding of the tent.

"Perhaps," Sylvanna murmured, her hands wandering teasingly down the length of Morrigan's body. "But I just neatened your hair, and you'll only ruin it-"

Her complaint was lost in a gasp as Morrigan wrapped her arms around her waist, swapping their positions in a single, fluid movement. "You may comb it again, when I tire of you," she said, removing the sheet that clung to Sylvanna's body.

"When you tire of me?" Sylvanna laughed. "That sounds like a challenge."

"One that you are destined to forfeit, I fear," Morrigan murmured, her fingers trailing lightly over bare skin. Sylvanna tossed her head back and closed her eyes, parting her legs slightly at Morrigan's touch.

Suddenly she gasped, squirming, her hand snaking out to grasp Morrigan by the wrist. "You're using magic. That's cheating!"

"I play to win."

A faint white glow wreathed Morrigan's hand, radiating cold, like a sword that had just been iced. As she brushed her fingertips down Sylvanna's stomach, she shivered and flinched, tensing against the unexpected sensations.

It became worse when Morrigan slipped inside her, the contrast between the unnatural cold and her own wet heat converging into an experience that was almost painful. Every one of her nerves was aflame, and she slid her calf against Morrigan's back in silent protest. Morrigan hushed her when she cried out, her free hand tracing the path of a tear as it slid down the side of Sylvanna's cheek.

"Maker's breath," Sylvanna whispered.

"'Tis not the Maker's name you should be invoking," Morrigan chided, and leant over to seal her words with a most gentle kiss.

"Oh, Morrigan," Sylvanna whimpered when she could form the words. "Morrigan..."

.

.

.

**Redcliffe, present day**

Sylvanna woke with a start, a name upon her lips. It took more than a moment to realign her senses. Haven had been years ago. The Blight was over.

She pressed a hand to her mouth, unable to banish the memories from her mind. Before that night, the liaison with Morrigan had been no more than a simple dalliance, a convenient arrangement that benefited both parties. Something had happened between them on the Haven mountainside, something ineffable that had changed their lives forever. Sylvanna had not wanted to admit it to herself, but she had fallen dangerously in love.

Unable to fall back into slumber, she rose, dressing herself with the light of a wisp summoned to her side. From the still coolness of the air, it felt close to midnight.

The witching hour.

The hallways were quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional servant passing her on some night time errand as she made her way out of the castle, descending by the dirt paths that led to the water. It had been on the edge of Lake Calenhad that Morrigan had made her unusual request, her plea to slay the abomination that was her mother. It was embarrassing to recall now, but Sylvanna had scarcely hesitated, leaping at the chance to perform this peculiar service. The fight had been more tiring than she had anticipated, but it had been that victory which had ignited the curious beginnings of their relationship.

She would slay another dragon, and more, to secure Morrigan's affections. That much had not changed.

She reached the edge of the lake. Ishantha had killed a man for her here, and she wondered whether his blood still stained the wooden slats of the pier. Sitting down on the edge of it, she removed her boots and trailed her bare feet in the water, watching the ripples made by the movements of her toes. The water was pleasantly cool, in contrast to the warm summer's night air...

At the touch of something brushing against the side of her foot, Sylvanna gasped and scrambled backwards, dragging her feet out of the lake. Its depths remained dark and impenetrable, but as she stared, she thought that perhaps she could see a flicker of something-

"You could not sleep?"

Sylvanna turned her head. Morrigan was treading water in the shallow depths, with only her shoulders and head exposed above the surface of the lake. As Sylvanna watched, silver flecks of glimmering scales disappeared into her skin, leaving behind no trace of the transformation. The tips of Morrigan's hair floated in the water, the tendrils drifting with each small movement made under the surface. Beads of moisture clung to her skin, trailing across the side of her cheek and then down past her shoulders.

This was not the Morrigan of her memories, but of the here and now. The physical differences were only minor; a few additional lines to her face, perhaps; a darkness to the eyes lending her a depth of maturity that had not been there, ten years ago.

She was still beautiful.

Sylvanna shook her head. "No."

Morrigan drew closer to the pier, examining her in the light of the wisp. "You appear flushed," she accused.

Sylvanna put her hands to her cheeks, feeling their warmth. "It's so stuffy inside the castle. I-"

Placing both her hands on the wooden dock, Morrigan pulled herself out of the lake, sitting down on the edge of the pier and wringing out her wet hair. She was completely naked. (_Well of course she would be. Shapeshifters don't wear clothes when they transform - that would be silly_, Sylvanna told herself.)

A bead of water flicked off the tip of Morrigan's hair and landed on the back of Sylvanna's hand. She watched it, fascinated, as it rolled down towards her fingers, leaving a neat trail of moisture in its wake.

"Do you find the sight of me displeasing?"

"What?" Sylvanna looked up to find Morrigan watching her with a curious gaze, making no attempt to hide her nudity. "No, of course not - why-"

"I only ask, since you seem to be so intent on gazing the other way."

"I-" Sylvanna swallowed. "You know that I find you very beautiful."

"Hmm." Morrigan tossed her head back, the movement flicking her hair down over her shoulder. She brushed a strand of her fringe back from her face, tucking it behind one ear. "Did you come here in search of me?"

Perhaps her subconscious had willed it. Or perhaps the meeting had merely been fortuitous. "Yes," Sylvanna said, her eyes travelling across her lover's body. The slight breeze must have been cooling against Morrigan's damp skin, hardening the peaks of her nipples. Morrigan noticed the direction of her gaze, and smiled.

"Are you concerned about the coming battle?" she asked, placing a cool palm against one of Sylvanna's flushed cheeks, tracing the old scars that still lingered there. "You should not be afraid."

It was impossible not to be concerned. So much could go wrong, and no matter what she did, numerous lives would be lost. They had been fortunate so far, but who could say whether that luck would continue? Many men had died from a stray arrow that had been intended for another; no matter how cautious one was, the battlefield was unpredictable and chaotic, and no place for a child.

"I've never liked war," was all she said. That much was true, at least.

"The true victors of war are the arms merchants and the carrion crows." Morrigan tilted her head to the side, her eyes gleaming dark gold. "Something else is troubling you." The hand that had been resting against her cheek moved downwards, until it found the junction of Sylvanna's robes. Morrigan leaned in, and the teasing tickle of her breath against Sylvanna's ear was maddening.

"I'm not troubled." Morrigan's hand was seductively cool against her flushed skin, as it crept down between her breasts, sliding flat against her belly. Sylvanna reached down, helping Morrigan to unclasp her belt, and freed from the impediment, the hand continued creeping further.

"Someone will see us," Sylvanna hissed, and then gasped as Morrigan parted her legs and rubbed her fingertips against the damp evidence of her desire. After a few moments, too brief for Sylvanna's liking, Morrigan wrestled her hand free of her robes.

"Let them," Morrigan said, bringing her hand to her face. Her fingertips glistened in the low light, and Sylvanna blushed furiously as Morrigan slowly licked her fingers clean. "Were you thinking of me?"

"So what if I was?" she asked, a little pointlessly; Morrigan would have known precisely the direction that her thoughts had been taking. Still, the admission felt too raw to give up lightly.

Morrigan chuckled, her eyes dark with amusement. "I have been thinking of you," she conceded. Her words were gentle, but her hand reaching around the back of Sylvanna's head was firm as she drew her inwards for a kiss. Sylvanna responded eagerly, clasping Morrigan around the waist and pulling her near.

They made light work of her clothes, piling them into a makeshift pillow to form a cushion against the rough surface of the pier. Sylvanna pushed Morrigan down onto the thin padding, and she landed heavily with a surprised gasp.

"You're bleeding," Sylvanna said, noting the trickle dripping along Morrigan's arm. She looked down. There was a nail jutting out from one of the slats, stained red; Morrigan must have landed against it.

"Wait," Morrigan said, grasping her hand as Sylvanna reached out to heal the injury. She dragged a finger in her own blood, pressing it to Sylvanna's mouth. It tasted warm and metallic on her tongue, staining her lips a vivid crimson. Blood continued to drip down the side of Morrigan's wrist, and she used it to paint a symbol on Sylvanna's bare chest, trails of it converging in the valley between her small breasts.

"Are you sure-" Sylvanna began, but Morrigan had already finished weaving the spell. Her body instinctively tried to resist the intrusion. Blood magic, old magic; it was all the same, foreign and dark and unsettling. Morrigan knew her well enough to make the transition easy, to make it comfortable, but that did not silence the dull voice of the Circle in the back of her head, reminding her that consorting with maleficarum was wrong.

(She had never been very adept at following those rules. Jowan, Nadine... perhaps it was inevitable that a blood mage would ensnare her, in the end).

The spell that Morrigan employed was very simple, opening up a two-way line of communication between caster and subject, a kind of... blood bond. It left bared open emotions, sensations; one person's shiver of longing from a carefully placed touch would be transmitted and felt through the blood by the other.

("'Tis not dissimilar to driving a cart," Morrigan had explained to her once, using a surprisingly pedestrian example. "The caster controls the speed and the direction. The passenger may remark upon the view."

Perhaps it had been a slight exaggeration on Morrigan's part. Sylvanna was sure that the potential existed for it to be something greater, something more equal, but her attempts so far in that direction had been in vain.

"That hardly seems fair," Sylvanna had complained. Morrigan had merely responded with a slight shrug and a pointed smile.

"The primary intent is to enhance sensation," Morrigan had explained vaguely. "The other aspects of the spell are a... side effect.")

Sylvanna had wondered how Morrigan had learned of the magic, and then decided that she did not really want to know. Morrigan's motivations were a mystery. Was it the challenge? The threat of danger? When they had first started experimenting, Morrigan had warned her, quite casually, of how a single mistake could cause permanent damage - psychic trauma, madness, addiction... it was an intimacy that demanded the utmost level of control, the most judicious imposition of will. Boundaries deliberately constructed were torn down. If it was simply a game to Morrigan, then the stakes seemed inordinately high.

Sylvanna licked at the blood on her lips. The taste was stronger, sharper now; each sensation stood out in vivid relief - the warmth of Morrigan's damp body where it pressed against hers, the slight breeze as it brushed against her bare back, the smell of rotting wood and fish and smoke that hung in the air. Even the colour of the blood seeping from Morrigan's arm looked brighter, more intense - the combined effect of her distorted senses was disorientating, and she barely resisted as Morrigan gently tugged her downwards.

Someone's hand (was it hers?) trailed across an expanse of bare skin, someone's lips claimed a eager kiss from their waiting partner. At once she could feel both the solid, unyielding surface of the pier against her back, and the brush of the night air against her damp skin. It was confusing, and tiring to interpret the sensations as her mind struggled to reconcile two very separate inputs.

"You are trying too hard," Morrigan admonished, kissing her at the hollow of her neck. It was more of a bite than a kiss, long and indulgent as she could feel both her skin bruising from the attention and the swollen pressure of her lips. (She could imagine the colours it would create - purples and reds; how it would be tender to the touch; how she would catch glimpse of it in a mirror and blush to remember how it had been obtained.) She saw herself through Morrigan's eyes, her body riddled with old scars, the skin stretched tight and shining silvery white where it had reformed and healed over. She shifted (or tried to; the command over her own body was there, but the feedback from it was disjointed) and from two pairs of ears she heard Morrigan's voice, a whisper that reverberated in her throat as she thought the words before she heard them.

"Sylvanna," Morrigan said, cutting through her reverie, "you look lovely," she encouraged, and the heat rose in her as she heard (spoke) the words that she knew could not be a lie. "Simply try to relax."

The blood had dried on her chest to a dark crust, and as she moved to cup Morrigan's breasts, she could see tiny cracks appearing in the sigil. Morrigan sighed, and brushed her hands down to the junction of Sylvanna's legs, barely pausing to tease her before slipping inside.

That caught her attention. Sylvanna gasped, closing her eyes as she urged Morrigan on with a slight shifting in her weight. She had been waiting for this, longing for it, hungering ever since - ever since Haven-

"You dreamt of me?" Morrigan asked. She paused in her rhythm, flicking her thumbnail at a most sensitive spot, and they both shared in the earnest moan that was born from Sylvanna's throat. Morrigan smirked triumphantly, and Sylvanna wanted nothing so much as to watch that expression transform, to see it replaced with the keen, unforgiving edge of desire, to see (to feel) Morrigan surrender as much as she had surrendered. The bond tugged at her, wavering and tenuous, and she bent her lips to the crook of Morrigan's arm, where her wound was still bleeding. As she again tasted her lover's blood on her tongue, the colours at the edge of her vision shifted and blurred, and she shuddered. The spell left her vulnerable, excitement and fear pooling in equal measures at the pit of her stomach.

"I want to see you," Sylvanna insisted, and their dual vision shifted. Morrigan's body was no less scarred than hers, but all of that was inconsequential. Etched into physical form was a map of where their paths had taken them, as much a marker of their shared history as any written recollection. She knew that body intimately; with her healer's eye she could label each part of its anatomy. She had shaped and reformed those bones on more than one occasion during the long days of the Blight, had closed wounds and nurtured aches and pains more times than she could count. Morrigan's heartbeat sounded like a distant roar, like the sound of the ocean.

More was required to sustain the spell, and Sylvanna gave it up gladly. A warm mouth upon her own, a flash of white teeth and she could taste her own blood trickling from her bitten lip. Morrigan toyed at the wound with her lips and her tongue, not permitting any of it to go to waste. Her blood tasted different, felt different to Morrigan's; in her altered sight, it even looked different, darker; she could only presume that the disparity was due to the taint. How that affected the spell, if it affected it at all, was something of a mystery.

The air was cool upon her thighs, or perhaps it was because her skin was flushed with a dull heat. She imagined that Morrigan could smell her blood through her pores (perhaps it sang to her; perhaps maleficarum could sense that sort of thing in the same way that grey wardens and darkspawn could sense each other). She felt pleasantly tipsy, as though her veins were infused with a fine wine.

(She remembered standing at the highest point of Kinloch Hold, looking out over the edge, the demon pretending to be Nadine standing behind her. The waters of Lake Calenhad had crashed over the jagged rocks at the foot of the tower, the wind caressing her hair as she had gazed down and felt the vertigo threatening to consume her.)

"I will not let you fall," a voice said, and it resounded inside her mind. The words came to her distorted, intermingled with the feeling of a soft breath tickling her ear and the sensation of shaping the words with her lips.

"I fell a long time ago," she replied. "I fell for you at Haven. I have been falling ever since."

She was not entirely sure who thought of it first, whether the idea sprang into life from a joint vision, or whether she impressed her own desires upon their shared consciousness, but Morrigan (and it took her a moment to be certain that it was Morrigan) was the one who translated that vague, half-formed impulse into reality.

Images flashed through her mind; promises of what her lover intended to do with her, and she drank them up with an earnest anticipation. As she tilted her head back and opened her eyes wide to the vast expanse of the night sky, she felt the shifting weight of Morrigan's body moving downwards. Her lover's able tongue sent a shudder through her, and she felt the witch pausing in response to her pleasure. Again, and then a pause; the waiting was excruciating, and within the bond, she could not even hide her impatience. It amused Morrigan, and her smug assurance enveloped her like a blanket.

"Please," Sylvanna whispered, an entreaty, but the voice was not quite her own; it was impossible to tell. She shifted, or was forced to move, and then all at once she was both penetrating and being penetrated, straddling the two versions of the same moment in a combined experience that her mind screamed must be impossible.

A thought flickered, vague and half-formed; an impulse of affection that she was almost certain owed its origins in Morrigan's mind, and not her own.

Sylvanna responded almost instinctively, wrapping her hands into Morrigan's hair, a caress turning into something more insistent, harsher, as she bit back a moan. "I love you," she said clearly, swallowing down the ticklish feeling at the back of her throat as the words were enunciated. Her heated blood pulsed through her body, and Morrigan raised her head. Through her eyes, Sylvanna could see her own naked breasts, dark with blood, the wanton expression on her own face; she could taste traces of her own desire upon her lips.

Morrigan bent down once more, and distracted her with a wave of pleasure that set her senses on fire. The thought surfaced again, like an echo, that lingering hint of softness, evidence of a greater bond between them. It was enough to push her over the edge, and she tossed her head back against the makeshift pillow, her body arcing as Morrigan brought them both over the brink of ecstasy, sharing in a release that carried them out past the shores of their desire.

.

.

.

Wooden piers, as it turned out, were extremely uncomfortable.

Sylvanna's hip dug into the slats beneath her, poorly cushioned by the folds of her robes. She watched her hand brushing across Morrigan's lips; a trace of blood remained there, still, and she leaned in to kiss it away, tasting herself on her lover's tongue. The bond had diminished somewhat, becoming more fragile. She could sense the languid echoes of Morrigan's pleasure, the simple joy she took in their kiss, and her growing awareness of the limitations of their makeshift pallet.

Morrigan dismissed the spell with a sigh. The loss of it gave Sylvanna chills as her senses slowly returned to normal, body and mind equalising with a shift in perception that felt somewhat jarring. As the last of the lingering effects of the spell left her, she mourned its loss.

"I envied you," Morrigan said, watching her.

It took Sylvanna a moment to remember that she could no longer sense her lover's thoughts. "What do you mean?"

"During the Blight," Morrigan explained, her eyes dark. "You were no more worldly than I - in many ways, far less so - and yet others followed you. Trusted you. It was perplexing," she admitted, with a slight crease in her brow. "It frustrated me, not knowing how you had conjured this hold over others. How you had conjured a hold over me."

"You say it as though I was weaving some sort of spell."

"Perhaps you were," Morrigan said, almost accusingly. She brushed her thumb over the peak of Sylvanna's ear, her knuckles grazing the side of her cheek as Sylvanna leaned into her touch. "You were special. We all sensed it, to varying degrees. Even that fool of a templar recognised it."

"Am I not still special, to you?" Sylvanna asked.

Morrigan's breath caught in her throat, and then she smiled. "Yes," she whispered, her voice husky with promise. "Oh, yes." She leant in, and Sylvanna closed her eyes as they kissed, her arms wrapping tightly around Morrigan as if to never let her go.

Morrigan drew back after a moment. Sylvanna's heart seemed to skip a beat as she gazed up at her with adoration, her lips slightly parted. She felt as though she could lose herself in that moment forever, as if she could preserve it in amber (the silence, the solitude, the perfection that existed within the words they did not speak); she would lock it within her, to be taken out and carefully remembered in times of need.

Morrigan took a breath. "Sylvanna, I-"

A sudden shout broke the stillness in the air, and she felt Morrigan tense, slipping from her arms.

"Hold that thought," Sylvanna begged, struggling into her robes and shoes. Morrigan left her side to dress, picking up her clothes from where she had discarded them at the edge of the lake.

They raced together towards the sound of raised voices, drawing up to the gatehouse of the castle. A group of villagers and guards had congregated there, with their daughter at the centre of the commotion.

"Tell me again," Ishantha demanded. "Clearly this time."

The villager standing before her wrung his hands, glancing anxiously around him. "It was past the Lyulf homestead," he explained. "We were taking a walk, Valena and I-"

"Wait," Sylvanna said as she and Morrigan ran up to the group. She was slightly out of breath; it had been years since she had been forced to push her body to its limits, and her endurance had suffered for it. "Why were you so far from the village this late? And where's Valena?"

The poor man looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. In the light from a pair of flaring torches held by the guards, Sylvanna could see that he was thoroughly dishevelled; his shirt was half undone, and he had lost one of his shoes, his bare foot trailing blood.

"He's been seeing Valena in secret, Warden," one of the villagers murmured quietly when it became clear that the man was incapable or unwilling to answer. "Her father had forbidden their union."

"They took her, didn't they?" Ishantha asked, her voice low. There was an undercurrent to her tone that disturbed Sylvanna, a barely restrained anger that threatened to bubble up and consume them all.

The man nodded, unable to form the words. He began to tremble with uncontrollable horror, his voice shaking as he spoke. "I tried to stop them, Warden, I did. I wish they had taken me instead. I wish - I wish-"

"Who took her?" Sylvanna found herself asking, her voice hollow.

"Darkspawn." Ishantha spat the word like a curse. "They must have dragged her underground."

Sylvanna and Morrigan exchanged looks, and she felt the blood draining from her face. She had not sensed darkspawn nearby for so long. Perhaps if she had made a point of patrolling the area outside the village, this could have been avoided. Perhaps if she had been more conscientious in her duties-

"How did you escape?" Morrigan asked.

The man nervously licked his lips. "I... I'm not sure, Milady. It all happened so fast-"

"They let him escape," Ishantha said, her eyes blazing with anger. "They wanted him to come here. To come to me."

"We should try to find her-" Sylvanna began.

Ishantha rounded on her abruptly, her eyes blazing with anger. "No. Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"She is right," Morrigan said. "Such a foray would avail us naught. The girl is lost to us. We need not lose more."

Sylvanna stared at her with disbelief. "We have to try - you know what horrors Valena would face-"

_NO_.

The people surrounding Ishantha all winced in unison, clasping their hands to their ears. The Child God relinquished the use of her Voice as the last of its echoes faded away.

"You will not go after her on some heroic venture," Ishantha said. "No one will seek out the darkspawn without my approval," she added, her eyes passing over the group. She turned to Sylvanna, her mouth stretched in a thin line. "Swear to me that you will not go after them," she demanded.

Sylvanna thought about Hespith, and about Valena's grateful smile when she had healed her father. "Please, you don't understand-"

_SWEAR IT._

There was no room for compromise in her daughter's eyes. Sylvanna took a breath, glancing between Morrigan and the man who was Valena's lover. "I promise," she said, relenting with a sullen lack of grace.

Ishantha held her gaze for a moment more before nodding. "Patrols will be doubled," she ordered. "No one is to venture out of the village in groups of less than four. We still have the armies of the divine to contend with, and I will not have our efforts distracted by the mindless darkspawn hordes."

The guards and villagers murmured assent as Morrigan frowned, her eyes shadowed.

"Spread the word," Ishantha commanded, and then clapped her hands together sharply. The people surrounding her shook their heads blearily, as if to clear them, then moved away from her with renewed purpose. She turned to her mothers, and looked at them with an expression of distaste. It dawned on Sylvanna that her face was probably smudged with dried blood, her clothes thrown on in disarray, and that Morrigan was similarly dishevelled.

"We will discuss our next steps tomorrow," Ishantha promised, her mouth twisted into a scowl, "when I'm not interrupting."

"You can't be serious," Sylvanna said as they started heading back to the castle, her daughter striding as fast as she could move without breaking into a run. "Someone should at least find Valena, grant her mercy-"

"No." Ishantha sounded weary, but she did not hesitate or even slow her pace. "No. Absolutely not. I will not say it again."

"Do not try to dissuade her," Morrigan murmured, placing her hand upon the Sylvanna's arm. "It would be a fruitless endeavour."

Sylvanna slipped her hand into Morrigan's, and they slowed their pace, watching their daughter as she continued quickly down the long pathway towards the main keep. She leant closer towards Morrigan, and wondered if guilt was an emotion that she could ever be free from.

"Do not blame yourself," Morrigan said, as if she were still reading her mind.

"I can't not."

"Do it, then. But let it be worth something. Pour your feelings into some purpose you can use to wreak revenge upon those who have wronged you."

Sylvanna straightened and looked at her, a slight frown on her face. "Are we still talking about darkspawn?"

Morrigan fell into silence as she glanced away. Their walk back to the castle was slow, long, and from that point onwards, entirely devoid of conversation.


	14. The World Beneath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Trigger warning: disturbing themes, discussion of suicide methods and references to rape.
> 
> With thanks to oneplusme for the beta and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**The Deep Roads**

The screaming had yet to stop, grating on the Architect's nerves with the needling persistence of a deepstalker with a bone. Even with all his carefully cultivated discipline, it was impossible to ignore, impossible to focus on anything else. As there came a particularly high-pitched shriek from the distant caverns, his quill skipped a stroke, leaving a rather unfortunate splodge of ink staining the centre of his journal page.

Perhaps he should have personally ensured that her tongue was cut out.

He dabbed carefully at the mark with a piece of vellum, the excess ink soaking into the makeshift blotter. He would have to endure. He intended to experiment on this one, as he had the others, should she survive the transformation. In a perfect world, his methods would not only enlighten the broodmother herself, but would also free all of her offspring from the mindless rage and savagery that characterised ordinary darkspawn. It would be his greatest triumph, his finest achievement for his race.

If his plans were successful.

The issue, as always, was one of resources. Time, skilled assistants and suitable test subjects were all in terribly short supply, even for a darkspawn as patient and long-lived as he was.

And then there was the problem of the blood.

It had been one of his most fortuitous discoveries, the knowledge that grey warden blood could be used to bestow sentience and free will upon his fellow darkspawn. It had been with the greatest of hopes that he had shared this discovery, some years ago, with the warden known as Gerod. But the ones who came after him were less open to reason, less capable of imagining an eternal peace, an end to the meaningless war between darkspawn and mankind.

The years that had followed had been quite... trying.

Utha had finally lost patience with his methods in the year 9:37 Dragon, and he remembered his failure to placate her with the same melancholy regret that he viewed all his failures. It had been a terrible, pointless waste. He had collapsed a rock chamber over her body, in the end, rather than allowing it to rot away or be eaten by the creatures that lurked in the Deep Roads. He had then questioned his reasons for doing so; his apparent burst of sentimentality.

Perhaps spending all that time with grey wardens had somehow changed him. Perhaps the act of observation itself had the capacity to influence him in ways that he had not originally accounted for.

It was a disturbing notion, and he had spent a few precious days reflecting over old notes and documents, trying to find a pattern in his own aberrant behaviour. Did he now harbour a certain sympathy for the upworlders, a lingering sentimentality that could act to hinder his future research efforts? Or had he simply been trying to honour a former comrade, acquiescing to her strange and primitive rituals in a bid to give her dead body the same respect which he had accorded her living soul?

Perhaps the fact that he was questioning his own actions in such a way was itself a sign of his developing derangement.

He would have to endure. His Disciples were more numerous now than they had been ten years ago, but they were spread thinly, to all of the far reaches of Thedas. He did not know how many now remained, how many had succeeded in their efforts to free more darkspawn to their cause. The only thing he could know for certain was that they had not yet found the last two slumbering Old Gods: Razikale and Lusacan still remained trapped in their underground prisons.

It was just as well. The Architect already had more than enough on his hands.

He had been greatly intrigued, albeit alarmed, when Urthemiel's call had begun to echo within his brethren's consciousness, over a year ago. They had all felt the archdemon's fall, signalling the end of the fifth Blight; they had all assumed that that had been the end of it.

It had taken a great deal of patience and effort on his part, but the truth had finally filtered down, once he had separated it from the distracting pile of conjecture and rumour - Urthemiel had indeed returned in a new form, and it was Her call that they heard now; low and soft and hauntingly beautiful.

Her call was greatly diminished, to begin with, but it seemed to increase in volume and complexity with each passing day. The Architect could only assume that this was a result of Her burgeoning powers, that the initial immaturity of Her song was due to the constraints of being reborn in a clumsy, human body.

Once, he had permitted himself to dare hope that this new, reborn Old God could be of use, that She would employ Her powers to aid the darkspawn in the same way that he had once bargained with First Enchanter Remille for aid. Together, they could have spread the taint across all the surface lands, granting immunity to the darkspawn infection to the surviving people of Thedas. No more would the humans, elves, dwarves and qunari need to fear the darkspawn corruption, when its very essence ran in their blood. The peace between their races would be complete.

It would have been... incredible, their alliance; a thing of great power and great beauty. With Her aid, he could accomplish in mere moments what would take decades of scheming and planning to achieve.

It was hopeless to wish for such things, however. Even if the Old God was amenable to his plans - and the Architect was by no means sure of such a thing - She Herself was not safe from becoming corrupted once more. The threat of that occurring, of instigating another Blight, was too high for his people to chance Her survival.

No; the Old God would have to die.

Again.

.

.

.

Devony had wanted to join the wardens.

The Blight had taken everything from her. Parents, siblings, her childhood home - even the man she had once thought, in her wildest dreams, that she would someday marry. The darkspawn had left her with nothing.

So when she heard that the Order was recruiting, she had leapt at the chance.

It wasn't as though she had anything left worth losing.

Now, however, she knew she didn't actually want to die. At least not down here. Not with the corruption burning in her veins, leading her inexorably closer to a transformation that she felt helpless to resist. Not here, with the screams of the darkspawn's newest victim ringing piercingly through her mind.

It was almost all she could do to swallow down the bile in her throat and try not to think about how she could have been there in that poor girl's place.

She carried an 'insurance policy', of course; all female wardens did, and most of the men as well, come to think of it. She could feel the reassuring pressure of it: a small, metal tube hidden behind her ear, containing enough poison to ensure her death within minutes. If she jostled it in the right way, it would probably fall easily enough into her hands, bound behind her back; otherwise, if all else failed, she could probably bite her tongue off and bleed to death, but given the choice, she would have preferred the poison. It was faster that way.

(Devony did not really want to be the instigator of her own death, of course; few people did; but when faced with the alternative - when faced with the terrifying, blood-curdling, and above all, unrelenting screams that echoed through the cavernous chambers - the choice was simple.

She wondered who that poor girl was, and whether her loved ones would be spared the horrific truth of her fate.)

It had been an ordinary enough day in the Hinterlands. They had been responding to a call for assistance; darkspawn had been sighted by the nearby villagers, and they had requested the wardens' traditional aid. The Order had risen to great esteem after the end of the Blight, helped in no small part by the fact that they had put a grey warden on the throne, a king who had proven popular with many commoners. Devony had never met him, of course, although apparently he visited their quarters in Amaranthine from time to time. She failed to see what all the fuss was about.

In any case, she and her companions (there had been six of them, all up) had fallen prey to an ambush, facing emissaries, archers, hurlock warriors, and shrieks that moved like shadows, there one moment and gone the next. Three of them had escaped, thank the Maker (or at least she thought they had escaped - she wasn't entirely sure about Nathaniel, the poor sod; her last glimpse of him had been obscured by a hideous genlock, crouched over him. Perhaps he still lived, though. Stranger things had happened).

"Keagan," she hissed, glancing over to where her friend lay, crumpled on the cell floor, "Keagan!"

"He's dead, Devony." The last member of their party shrugged painfully, before breaking into a hacking cough. He spat out a wad of phlegm, unable to wipe his mouth with his hands bound behind his back.

Devony stared at him in disbelief. "That can't be right, Eadric. He - he wasn't even injured."

"I know." The elf leant back against the wall of his cell, trying to get comfortable. His eyes fluttered closed, and when he spoke again, it was in an emotionless voice. "He took the sure way out. It was probably the smart thing to do."

"What?" Devony exclaimed. "How did this happen?"

Eadric looked at her askance. "You must have hit your head harder than I thought." Devony saw he had blood splattered all down the side of his robes, though how much of that was his and not darkspawn blood, she was unable to tell. There was some sort of fluorescent fungi growing in the dank corners of the floor and along the sides of the walls, but apart from that, there were no other sources of light.

"Don't you remember anything?" Eadric asked.

She shook her head.

"I don't even know how long we've been down here," he continued in a conversational tone. "The other woman was only brought here a day or so ago, I think," he said, with a nod indicating the distant screams.

Devony looked over at the body again. Why couldn't she remember Keagan's death? She tried to lean forward, and then was stopped abruptly by the manacles chaining her to the wall of the cell. With a frown, she busied herself for a moment by trying to wrench free of them. All that she managed to accomplish was to rub her wrists raw against the thin metal.

"You should think about it," the elf continued, sounding too casual. "Me, I guess they're saving for meat. You... I wouldn't be too sure."

"Don't you think I know that?" she asked, trying to push the thought away to the back of her mind. She had never really gotten along with the mage, or figured out whether he actually had a problem with her or if he just had a thing against all humans. Whatever. It didn't matter. They were supposed to be comrades now, part of the same Order, as little as that meant down here.

She couldn't even feel the darkspawn anymore. No, that was a lie - she could sense them, and they were everywhere. Corruption covered the walls of their cells like a cancer, black, tumorous growths embedding themselves along cracks in the stone and spreading their tendrils in all directions.

Perhaps that was why she did not sense the darkspawn until it was almost upon them.

Dear Maker, but it was hideous. The black, glassy eyes reminded her so revoltingly of dead fish, and she could not even tell where its headgear began and its reptilian, hairless skin ended. It carried a staff in one hand, and a glowing orb the other. An emissary, then. Eadric seemed to recoil from the light, his eyes squinting defensively shut.

"Your companion has died," the emissary said, looking down at Keagan's body. "A pity."

It was strange, hearing those calm, almost gentle words coming from a darkspawn's lips. Devony shuddered. "What do you care if he's alive or dead when you feed him to that poor girl?" she shouted, taking refuge in her anger. It would burn out in time, she knew, leaving her more alone than ever. For now, it was a welcome warmth, keeping her spirit from descending to the depths that poor Keagan's had.

The darkspawn looked surprised. She didn't know that they could do that. "I have no intentions of using grey wardens for meat," it said, as though it was almost horrified by the concept. "You must have many questions. I am the Architect."

"The Architect," Eadric echoed, looking up. "So it's true. You've survived all these years."

"What's true?" Devony snapped. She had been a grey warden for almost as long as Eadric, she had served just as hard, sacrificed just as much - and then some - so why was she only just hearing about this now?

Eadric turned his head to look at her, speaking to her slowly, as if she was some sort of stupid human who could not even handle the tiniest grey warden secret. "The Architect was the darkspawn who found the Old God Urthemiel, and began the last Blight," he explained. The effort he put into speaking seemed to drain him, and he sank back against the wall with a groan.

Devony's hands clenched into fists. If only she had her bow now, that emissary would be taking its last breath. "What are you going to do with us?" she demanded.

"I regret the circumstances that have led us to this meeting," the darkspawn said, as though it had not heard her at all. "I come to offer peace. A chance for our races to live together in harmony."

"You must be joking," Devony said.

"No. He's not." Eadric sighed, propping himself up to a more vertical sitting position. "He's tried this, what - two, three times before? Half a dozen? You come to the grey wardens in Ferelden, and you offer them a choice."

The darkspawn inclined its head to the elf. "That is correct."

"What is this? What choice? What others?" Devony asked.

"I've read the reports," Eadric continued, his voice distant. "You must be at least eighty years old, by now? Probably more? Is that even old for a darkspawn? We know so little of your kind-"

"We have some regenerative powers, yes," the Architect said. The hand grasping its staff flexed, perhaps unconsciously. "But regrettably, many of our kind succumb to violent ends, long before our bodies begin to decay."

"Why are you even talking to him, Eadric?" Devony asked, wondering if she was the only person who had not gone entirely mad. "He's a darkspawn, for Andraste's sake."

"Have you come to offer a truce, then?" the elf continued, as though he had not heard her at all. Devony could have screamed in frustration.

The Architect tilted its head to the side. "Yes. But your friend appears agitated," it said, as it focused its dead eyes on Devony, who bristled in the light of that stare.

"She's scared of becoming a broodmother," Eadric said, as though they were talking of heights or spiders, something altogether commonplace and not... not the absolute worst fate that could befall a woman, down in the depths. Devony wanted to punch that indifferent expression off his face.

"Ah." The Architect seemed to be surprised, again. "Do not be concerned," it said, this time directing its words towards her. "That is not a fate that will befall you."

"You expect me to believe that?" Devony shouted, absolutely certain now that everyone else had lost their minds. "From you? From a darkspawn?"

Eadric sighed.

"I do not expect you to understand," the Architect said, sounding almost hurt. "But I hope that for your sake, you will trust me."

Devony began to laugh. She found that once she started, she was unable to stop. She laughed and laughed and laughed until her sides ached and her ribs felt sore from the pressure of it. She laughed until tears rolled down her face, and she felt ashamed for wasting them, not knowing when she would next be able to taste clean water on her tongue.

She watched Eadric and the darkspawn conferring quietly together, before the Architect opened the door of the elf's cage, unlocking the chain that held Eadric to the wall. His manacles clanked together accusingly as he held his hands out before him as he walked, the Architect following closely by his side.

"Eadric, what are you doing?" she asked, with the silent message: _don't leave me_. The elf glanced over his shoulder as he left, his eyes unreadable; there was nothing in the grim line of his mouth to give her with any semblance of hope.

When the two of them left, Devony was returned to near-darkness, with only the faint glow of the fungi to guide her. She looked over to Keagan. She wished that she could reach out and at least arrange his body in a respectful position, but the chain on her manacles was too short. She settled for leaning her head against the side of his cell, curling up as close to it as she could. "At least you're still here," Devony whispered to him.

Keagan did not respond.

After some time, with the distant echo of screams running through her mind, she closed her eyes and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: About Eadric and why he doesn't just blow the place up: the grey warden mage from 'The Calling' states that they were unable to cast any useful spells with their hands bound, so presumably the somatic component is a fairly important part of most offensive spells. (This wasn't really apparent in game play imo, apart from having a few spells that can't be used with a drawn sword etc., but oh well).


	15. Nightmares and Visitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you to all of you for reading and reviewing. I really do adore your encouragement and feedback.
> 
> With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**The Fade**

"Tell me about the Deep Roads," Alistair asked one evening.

It had been a long, uncomfortable, and altogether wretched journey, leaving Flemeth's hut for the third time and heading out of the Korcari Wilds. Zevran had kept up a constant string of complaints: about the humidity ruining his hair, about the swamp mud seeping into his boots, about how he would never get Flemeth's dragon blood out of his shirt, until Leliana had finally offered to garrotte him with a lute string.

That had led into a lengthy discussion about ligatures and rope work, complete with hand gestures, as Alistair had clamped his hands over his ears and tried to block out their conversation by loudly reciting the Chant of Light backwards.

Sylvanna had almost been relieved when a stray band of darkspawn had found them, and there had been nothing else to listen to except the blessed screams of the horrible creatures as they had died, and the reassuring whomph of a fireball as she had launched it into their midst.

They had stopped for the night soon after that, and had made camp at the edge of the Wilds. The fight had wrung the last dregs of energy from them all, leaving their banter with a somewhat desultory air that evening. Alistair had offered to take first watch and Sylvanna had joined him, finding it impossible to sleep.

She felt the weight of the old woman's grimoire in her pack as a heaviness over her heart, dragging her down to the tempting and elusive realm of old magic. Blood magic. Or it would have, if only she could read the damned thing.

"How's your arm doing?" she asked, pretending not to have heard Alistair. Sometimes that actually worked with him, and he would forget whatever it was that he had been trying to say; sometimes, it didn't.

This was one of those times.

"It's fine," he said, waving it around to prove his point. "See? No stiffness at all." He leant closer to her, and the light from the fire played eerily on his face. "The Deep Roads," Alistair said, wetting his lips nervously. "I want to know everything."

Sylvanna looked away. They should have discussed this sooner. Preferably in daylight. Preferably somewhere crowded, without the niggling feeling like they were being watched or followed or something. "It was dark," she began.

"Yeah, I kind of figured that one out for myself, it being underground and all."

"There were lots of spiders," Sylvanna added. "Giant ones."

"Morrigan must have felt right at home, then."

Sylvanna made a face. "And little funny lizardy things, with really sharp teeth. They squeaked."

"Uh-huh."

"Oh Alistair, it was horrible." She tried to find the words to describe it, the awful feeling of being trapped under stone and rock, the endless darkness, the sensation of darkspawn that pervaded the depths in all directions. "Oghren - his wife-"

"Shale told me," he said helpfully. "Or 'Shayle,' rather. It must be hard, having to kill your own wife-"

"What she did was monstrous," Sylvanna said, her voice turning cold. "Her own house - those were her people! Her own lover! And she sacrificed them to - to be made into things - and all because of her crazy obsession with a device that trapped souls and forced people to be made into golems-"

"Hey, I'm not disagreeing with that bit," he protested. "Though I guess... a personal army of golems would be pretty amazing against the Blight-"

"Alistair."

"All right," he said. "Look, I agree with you. It was the right thing to do."

Sylvanna folded her hands over her face, and breathed out. "Did Shale also tell you where darkspawn come from?"

"Not... exactly, but I'm guessing from your expression that it's a bit different from 'when a boy darkspawn and a girl darkspawn love each other very much...'?"

"Huh. It's nothing like that." Sylvanna picked aimlessly at the dirt beneath her fingernails, before giving up on the endeavour as a lost cause. "It's more like... 'when your Paragon lover betrays you, the darkspawn take you away and feed you flesh and blood - their flesh and blood, I mean. Darkspawn blood, and the corpses from their other victims, and they... do other things... until you became a multi-tentacled, immobile monster, endlessly producing thousands of little baby darkspawn and-'"

"It's all right," Alistair said, placing a hand over hers. "It's done now. You're safe."

Sylvanna made a strangled noise. "I'm not going back there," she vowed. "I'm not. Screw tradition. There's no way I'm going to head off to a sodding glorious grey warden death, surrounded by hordes of darkspawn until I die, becoming food for another one of those poor things or..."

"Hey," Alistair said, squeezing her hand. "No one's going to force you to do that. Maker, I'd like to see them try."

That elicited a weak smile from her. She leaned her head against his shoulder, avoiding the side that had been roasted in their fight with Flemeth. "You must think I'm an idiot," she murmured, as he placed an arm around her. "I just really, really hate the thought of-"

She paused suddenly, feeling a prickling sensation at the centre of her consciousness. "Did you feel that?" she asked as she sat up. He moved his arm, and she saw it from the corner of her eye - black, spindly talons where a human hand should have been, and-

The darkspawn clamped its claws over her mouth before she could scream, and the rancid flesh was cold against her cheek, tasting of mould on her tongue. She felt its other hand digging into her abdomen, wrapping her in a magical paralysis that bound her from her toes to her fingertips. _Alistair_, she thought frantically, unable to even blink her eyes. _How_... _no, I must be dreaming-_

"Warden," the darkspawn whispered with a sibilant hiss, moving into her line of vision. Its face was lopsided, as though someone had held a candle to one side and the flesh had sagged like melting wax. One dark eye peered out of a sunken socket, and she saw her terrified face reflected in its liquid depths. Its thin lips pulled back from sharp, yellowed teeth as it spoke, its breath smelling foully of decay. "Warden, I need your aid..."

The spell broke in that instant, and without its support, Sylvanna overbalanced and tumbled forwards. She was on her feet within moments, magic writhing at her fingertips as she prepared to blast the darkspawn into a million pieces.

But when she turned, it wasn't the darkspawn that she saw behind her. It wasn't even Alistair.

It was a human woman, hunched over, the shreds of a dress clinging to her back. The tattered clothing did little to hide the blotches of corruption spreading across her skin; the obvious signs of darkspawn infection. Huge clumps of her hair had fallen out, and what remained was filthy with dirt; her fingers twisted agonisingly in the strands, tugging them out. The tips of her nails had broken off, leaving behind bloody stumps, and as Sylvanna watched in horror, a high, keening wail escaped from the woman's throat.

"Dear Maker," Sylvanna said before she could help herself. She took a step back, and the woman reached out a hand, grasping her ankle as fast as a snake. She raised herself up on her elbows, letting Sylvanna see her face. It was covered with grime and seeping wounds, the blackness of corruption creeping up her neck, but her features were all too familiar, nonetheless.

Valena.

A flash of recognition showed in the woman's eyes, before she looked down and past Sylvanna. Her hand moved again, faster than the warden would have thought possible, and she screamed in triumph as she drew Sylvanna's dagger from her boot, holding it up to the light. The metal flashed a cold silver, and before she could be stopped, Valena plunged it hilt-deep into her own chest. Dark ichor began to flow from the wound, a trickle flowing out of her mouth as she made a wet gurgling noise, her two hands clenched firmly around the dagger.

She withdrew the blade, the blood flowing more freely now, and then stabbed herself again, this time twisting the dagger as it sank deeply into her body. She left it buried between her ribs, her hands slipping slackly from its hilt as she collapsed on the ground in a gradually spreading pool of dark blood.

Sylvanna felt a wave of nausea threaten to overcome her, and she breathed deeply, trying to suppress her horror. Her boots made soft noises as they pressed into the blood-soaked ground; she crouched down and reached out to close the corpse's eyes.

Valena's hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist, her eyes staring at her with bone-white lucidity.

"Again," the corpse said hoarsely, as blood continued to pump from the wounds on her chest. "Kill me again."

"Valena," Sylvanna whispered as she leant over, electricity sparking between her fingertips, "it's the least I can do."

.

.

.

**Redcliffe**

Sylvanna had not pursued their discussion from the night Valena disappeared.

Part of Morrigan was irate. She had been on the verge of confessing something of great import, and it seemed to have completely slipped her warden's mind amidst all of her anxiety about darkspawn and templars and other distant, menacing threats.

(Morrigan shared similar fears, of course. She was not a complete fool).

But the fact that Sylvanna had not even tried to wheedle the truth out of her was evidence of her distress over the blacksmith's daughter. In one sense, Morrigan was grateful for the distraction, as unfortunate as it was. Perhaps it was better this way. Morrigan had clearly grown soft, made complacent by the lingering effects of the spell and the physical languor that had suffused her body after their exertions.

There was no real need to say the words. She held no illusions about what they meant. They were no binding vows, no sacred covenant. If Flemeth had taught her anything, it was that life was fragile. Promises of eternal devotion and loyalty were easily broken, and therefore meaningless.

(But if they were meaningless, then why was it so hard for her to say them?)

"Aren't you coming?" Sylvanna asked, disrupting her thoughts. She was already fully dressed, dark shadows showing under her eyes as she leant against the door frame, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

"In time," Morrigan said. Her daughter had called a war council, but Morrigan expected to gain more out of the experience by listening rather than speaking. The words that remained unsaid were often more interesting than those that were spoken.

Sylvanna frowned slightly, then shrugged. "As you wish," she said, before leaving Morrigan to her own devices.

Morrigan sighed.

The sigh turned into a shiver as she began to transform, shrinking quickly, her body elongating and features twisting, black fur emerging from the surface of her skin. She smoothed a paw over her whiskers, her ears twitching slightly from side to side. With one last flick of the tail, the cat slipped out of the room and headed towards the centre of the keep.

.

.

.

The meeting was already in session when Morrigan arrived.

Her daughter sat at the head of a table that seemed far too large for her. Someone had thoughtfully brought in a few stacked pillows for her seat, and Ishantha's feet dangled off the ground, tapping against the legs of the chair in a manner that signified her intense preoccupation. Morrigan's tail brushed her ankle as she passed by, announcing her presence, and her daughter spared her a single glance before returning to the matter at hand.

"No, Ser Tomas; the Dalish will not be joining us at the keep," Ishantha was saying. "They will remain in the woods surrounding the village, and inconvenience the approaching forces as they see fit. Is that agreeable to you, Keeper?"

The old Dalish woman inclined her head slightly. As Morrigan stalked past their contingent, the keeper looked down at her askance, her tattooed face twisting into a frown. Her first was somewhat more welcoming, reaching down a hand for Morrigan to sniff before withdrawing it swiftly as his leader glared at him with a slight shake of her head. Morrigan snaked around his leather-clad legs, purring deep in her throat, and enjoyed weathering the keeper's stony glare before extricating herself from the boy. He smelled of green leaves and crushed grass, the warm, earthy scent of the halla clinging to his boots. The two elves were both somewhat uneasy, though they hid it well; the boy to a lesser extent. Presumably it was due to the weight of the stones overhead, or the presence of so many humans nearby, or maybe both. Morrigan could well sympathise with those sentiments.

To her surprise, Arl Teagan had also been welcomed to the meeting, flanked behind his chair on either side by two unsmiling guards. The arl looked rather grim. Well, that much was to be expected.

Tired of the sight of armoured knees and legs and the smell of unwashed feet, Morrigan jumped into Sylvanna's lap, where she was seated next to her daughter. She arched into Sylvanna's hand as she absently stroked her short, dark fur, a near-silent purr escaping from her throat. Curling up tightly, she rested her head on her paws and continued to watch the proceedings with baleful yellow eyes, the tip of her tail making slow, sinuous movements from side to side.

"Before all of this begins," Teagan said in a low voice, "I beg you, let the villagers evacuate to a neighbouring arling - South Reach, perhaps. That way-"

"What makes you so sure that they will be safer there, Arl Teagan?" Ishantha sounded annoyed. "The roads between here and South Reach are poorly patrolled. Unless you expect me to send them to their doom, they will withdraw behind the castle walls as previously discussed."

Teagan looked as though he was prepared to make an angry rejoinder, but Ser Tomas placed a hand on his arm, and the man thought better of it. Tomas headed up the Redcliffe militia; it seemed that he had more sense than Morrigan had previously given him credit for.

More curious was the way in which Sylvanna and Teagan appeared to be studiously avoiding each other's gazes, or rather, the way in which Sylvanna was avoiding his gaze. Teagan shot the elf darting glances when he thought no one else was looking, but he was met only with her coy evasion. If Morrigan didn't know better, she would have guessed that they were partaking in a secret affair. Now that was a mental image that she could do without. She shifted her weight irritably, her claws making tiny runs in the fabric of Sylvanna's robes. Sylvanna scratched her soothingly behind her ears, and she quietened with an annoyed flick of her tail. Later, then; they would discuss it later.

"All else being equal, how long could we withstand a siege?" Ishantha asked, of a woman that Morrigan had seen about the castle.

The nameless woman shrugged her sun-reddened shoulders. "With all the extra mouths to feed, perhaps a month," she offered. "The past harvest was poor, and our supplies are low."

Sylvanna shifted uncomfortably. A month was scarcely any time at all; when the Orlesians took Redcliffe, they had been fighting for almost half a year. Life had certainly been simpler when it had just been the three of them. Faced with such a threat, Morrigan would have brooked no delay in ensuring that they simply... disappeared. None of this ridiculous (not to mention dangerous) business of making a stand or worrying over some hapless peasants, just the simple choice between evading the enemy and killing it. Those options provided a clear purpose, a simple action and reaction that appealed to Morrigan much more than the convoluted schemes that both her daughter and the warden seemed to prefer.

Ishantha did not seem terribly displeased. "Then we will need to crush them swiftly," she said.

Sylvanna breathed out a quiet sigh, and her hand stilled. Morrigan nudged her fingers irritably with her nose until Sylvanna resumed her previous attentions.

"How, precisely, do you intend to do that?" Arl Teagan asked. He smelled strongly of scepticism and, more faintly (so faintly that she could hardly detect it), of hope. Morrigan wondered if he truly believed that he could walk away from all of this. Even if he somehow made his way to allies who were not enamoured of her daughter, the Chantry would look twice at a man who had spent so long in the company of an Old God reborn. It would be amusing, indeed, if Arl Teagan and his family were eventually prosecuted for heresy...

Ishantha pretended to look wounded. "Magic, of course," she said, and then directed the conversation on to other matters.

Morrigan listened in a desultory fashion to the rest of the talks. At some stage, a large map of the surrounding terrain was rolled out, clearly outlining the village and the single access route to the castle. It was slightly out of date, she noted from her experience exploring the lands, and the Dalish keeper lost no time in pointing out its inaccuracies. Amendments were made, and the conversation resumed anew.

During all this time, Sylvanna remained rather quiet, rarely offering comments unless she was personally addressed. There was a faint trace of elder wort on her breath. Morrigan sighed, the tips of her ears flicking. The warden had not rested properly for days, taking potions to avoid the onset of sleep, pacing up and down at odd hours and generally making a complete nuisance of herself. It was driving Morrigan to distraction, and at this time, she could ill afford to be distracted.

Ishantha called a close to the meeting, and the room's occupants began to file out, Morrigan waiting for them to leave before leaping down onto the floor.

"Ishantha," Sylvanna said when only Morrigan and her daughter were left behind. Morrigan could not remember the last time the warden had referred to the child by her Dalish name. It had probably involved some kind of lecture. "I need to speak with you."

"Mama, I'm busy," the child said with an impetuous impatience. No, that was incorrect - her shadow tasted sour with unease. _Interesting_.

"About Valena," Sylvanna said, pressing on. "I-"

"Mother," Ishantha said, directing her words to the cat. That tang remained behind the anger, that awkward note that smelled rather similar to fear. "Mother, you need to deal with this. I have other things to do."

The walls shook with the impact when she left, slamming the door shut behind her. No mean feat, considering that it was made of solid oak.

Sylvanna's stricken expression turned to one of rage. "I am not waiting around to be dealt with," she fumed, before following in Ishantha's footsteps.

The door slammed closed for the second time, right in front of Morrigan's whiskers. She arched her back, stretching out her claws with an irritable hiss.

She would be very, very glad for the day when some enterprising person invented a door that could be opened by a set of paws.

.

.

.

Sylvanna eventually found Ishantha in the old watch tower. The child was curled up against the western wall, watching the scurrying lines of people walking in and out of the castle, shifting supplies and weapons. Her golden eyes were narrowed into slits, the afternoon sun bathing the tower in a warm glow. Due to the height of the wall she was leaning against, however, Ishantha herself was cast in shadow.

"Why are you avoiding me?" Sylvanna asked, sitting down against the wall opposite to the girl.

"Why do you persist when you already know my answer?" her child questioned.

"Owen hung himself."

Ishantha sighed, and her eyes flicked skywards. "The blacksmith? A pity. His skills will be sorely missed, especially now."

"He was Valena's father! Don't you care?"

Ishantha looked across at her. "Shh, Mama," she warned, tapping a finger against her lips. "No shouting."

Sylvanna leaned her head against the wall, closed her eyes, and counted silently to ten.

"I dream of them too," Ishantha said cautiously. Sylvanna's eyes snapped open, watching her daughter as the child stared far off into the distance. "I can hear the darkspawn, in my sleep."

"Please," Sylvanna said. "Please, you have to at least let me try..."

"You told me many stories in my youth, Mama." Ishantha's nails dragged raggedly against the stone floor of the tower, and she rubbed the resulting dust between her fingertips with a concentration that seemed misplaced. "Of dragons and knights and monsters, valiant men and women who rallied against evil and defeated it."

"Ishantha, there are times when-"

"Shh," her daughter said, her eyes flashing. "Don't interrupt."

Sylvanna subsided, tucking her knees close to her chest, and prepared to listen.

"Let me tell you a story," Ishantha said.

"Let me tell you about the day the darkspawn found me."

.

.

.

By the time Morrigan shifted to her natural form, opened the door, startled a pair of maid servants with her nudity, shifted back to a cat, reached her room, shifted back again to a human and dressed, she was in a foul, wretched mood.

It was harder to trace Sylvanna's path without her cat's senses, but at least in this form she did not have to watch for dashing feet or grasping hands or, most odious of all, the stark attention of curious dogs. If only humans did not have such ridiculous preoccupations with modesty, she could have danced between forms at will, but it was rather difficult to carry one's clothes about when in the form of a small cat. Perhaps if she used her wolf's coat… but that would probably send the servants into a frenzy of terror, and Morrigan could not put it past some enterprising guard to try to bring it upon himself to save the castle from the marauding wolf.

Such were the trials she endured, all for the sake of her daughter.

She was forced to ask a passing servant about Sylvanna's approximate location, and that led her to the stairs that wound up to the watchtower. The spiral staircase seemed almost endless, but at last she reached the top of it, her skin clammy from the combination of the summer heat and the long climb.

"Hello Mother," Ishantha said tiredly as Morrigan came to the top of the stairs. The child was hugging her knees to her chest, her short fingernails digging into her arms, hard enough to leave marks. The warden was noticeably absent.

"Where is Sylvanna?" Morrigan asked, taking a seat next to her daughter.

Ishantha tilted her head to the side and looked at her mother. "I Told her to go and sleep," she said, with a slight emphasis that made it sound less like an order and more like a divine commandment. "I can't let her insomnia distract her. It's dangerous in someone of her position."

"You appear exhausted yourself," her mother said. "Surely that is the greater danger here."

Ishantha shrugged and settled her head in her mother's lap. Morrigan stroked her hair, letting its glossy weight settle between her fingertips and fall again. A few years more, and her daughter would be setting hearts aflame. Maybe even literally.

"I am afraid," the child said, and the magnitude of the confession stopped her mother cold; never before had she alluded to such vulnerability. "Not of the Chantry, or of their silly little men and mages - I could eat those whole," she yawned, and her teeth gleamed pearly white in the glow of the setting sun.

"You can't let the darkspawn take me," Ishantha said, looking up at Morrigan with an intense scrutiny. "I can hear them. Scrabbling in the dark, all claws and teeth; searching for me, hunting me. I won't let them touch me."

"Of course not," Morrigan soothed. "They will not take you again."

"They can hear me," her daughter continued, her eyes taking on a glazed quality as she gazed beyond her mother's watchful face. "That is why they are drawn to this place, to me. I wish I could turn it off. I wish I could silence it forever and above all, I wish that they would all die in a righteous, cleansing fire that would scour the world of their taint-"

The child broke off with a sob, and glistening tears began to roll down her face as she cried. With that soft, wretched sound, Morrigan was completely disarmed.

"Hush, my darling," she murmured, holding the child close to her and wrapping her up in her arms. She felt her daughter trembling as she whispered soothing nothings into her ear, her pulse beating loud and fast. It was as if her child was newly born again, tiny and defenceless against all the wardens and darkspawn and templars and nameless dangers that would dare threaten her. As though their world was only large enough for two, united by the blood that ran through their bodies and the warmth that filled their hearts.

The knowledge that it would not last made the moment all the sweeter.

Ishantha dried her eyes on her sleeve, blinking up at her mother. "You mustn't let the warden near them," she said clearly. "They will corrupt her as they do to all their prey."

"She will do nothing of the sort," Morrigan promised her. It wasn't an unreasonable request, but one far easier said than done.

"Should we... make her forget about Valena?" Ishantha asked, as she watched her mother.

Morrigan shook her head. "It would be unwise. Such a spell could swiftly become unstable."

Ishantha sighed with resignation. She clambered to her feet, allowing her hand to remain in Morrigan's as they began to descend the stairs. "Life was much simpler in the Wilds," she said, echoing her mother's thoughts.

"Are you so tired of men and their machinations already?" Morrigan asked, unable to keep a hint of hope from her voice.

"No."

Morrigan sighed.

"I want my father to kneel before me as he hands his precious nation to his first-born child. I intend to see it through."

"Then there is much work to be done," her mother said, and she was rewarded with the sound of her daughter's warm, golden laughter echoing down the tower stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The full text of Ishantha's story to Sylvanna about darkspawn is included in chapter 5 of my companion fic, [Fables from Ferelden.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/104932/chapters/153834)


	16. Vanishing Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With a very big thank you to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice. Dragon Age belongs to BioWare; I'm just playing around in their sandbox and absolutely not making a cent from this.
> 
> A bit of shameless RL squee: it was our first anniversary on the weekend, and my wife put together a printed copy of 'A Curious Thing' for me, which was a huge surprise. Serif fonts! An adorable foreword! Gilt embossing! Anyway, it was extremely cute and I just HAD to tell you all.
> 
> This chapter was originally supposed to contain more plot, but engaging Anders on military matters proved to be... problematic, to say the least.

**The Bannorn**

Anders woke to the sounds of chaos.

He sat up straight in his bedroll, reaching for his robes and staff. It only took him moments to dress (another fantastic advantage to robes - non-mages were definitely missing out), and with Mister Twisty clenched firmly in his hand, he blearily made his way out of his tent, hoping that breakfast had not yet passed him by.

The sight that befell his eyes did not fill him with confidence.

A warden stalked past him, waving a finger in his face, and babbled something in rapid Orlesian.

"What?" Anders' eyes darted about, searching for the other Fereldans who had accompanied him from Amaranthine. "Where are the-"

"There you are," a voice said, in perfect Fereldan. It was a short woman, a mage, it seemed from the staff, who was sizing him up with a painfully critical eye. The twist to her mouth suggested that he had not quite met her expectations. "I've been looking all over for you."

"For me?" Anders squeaked. "Where are the other wardens?"

The woman sighed, rolling her eyes. "Here. They told me to give you this." She handed him a scrap of parchment, with a few sparse lines scribbled upon it.

_Anders_

_Don't take this the wrong way, but we decided to head down to Gwaren early this morning. We neglected to tell you because we didn't want you to blow our heads off._

_Your mission is an important one, and the king will have our hides if you don't follow through with it._

_We hope to see you again once the March is over._

_Sorry._

An assortment of names were scribbled at the end of the paper, followed by an ominous 'PTO'. Anders turned the sheet over.

_PS: A siege is no place for a cat, so we brought Ser Pounce-a-lot with us to Gwaren. You can collect him upon on your safe return._

The paper crumpled into a tight wad in Anders' fist. "They took my cat," he said hotly. "My sodding cat! Why did they have to take my cat?"

"It... could be worse?" the Orlesian offered.

"It could be worse? How could it be worse? My friends desert me and kidnap my cat, I'm stuck here, heading towards a whole lot of angry templars with swords and a bunch of Orlesian-"

"A bunch of Orlesian what?" the mage asked.

Anders sagged in defeat. "Nevermind," he grumbled. He looked down at the crumpled parchment in his fist. They had what, two hours head start on him? He could slip free of here, start travelling south and either catch them on the road or at Gwaren itself-

"Pack up your things," the mage said. "The warden-commander wants to see you."

"You must be joking," Anders groaned. The woman only shook her head.

Oh well. He would need his things packed up if he was going to slip away, at any rate. As he began to dismantle his tent, he noticed the woman's piercing eyes following him. "Excuse me? Some privacy, please?"

"The warden-commander was quite specific," the mage said. "I'm not to let you out of my sight."

Damn. Well, she couldn't be watching him all the time... "Don't you have better things to do other than babysitting one little mage?"

The woman snorted. "Obviously not, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Now hurry up, I'm getting a headache just watching you flail around."

"I'm not flailing," Anders protested, as he struggled with the folds of the tent. He eventually collapsed the mass to a somewhat manageable size, although for the life of him, he couldn't remember where he had stashed that rope...

"So, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to help me?" he asked.

The mage gave a slight shrug, an amused smirk rising to her lips. "You seem to be doing well enough on your own."

"Oh, very funny," Anders snapped. His stomach had begun to growl, reminding him that it was still owed breakfast. "Do you have a name, or should I make one up for you?"

The woman rolled her eyes at him. "Amell," she said, after a moment's pause. "Solona Amell."

"Huh." Anders stuffed the last of his belongings haphazardly into his pack. "That doesn't sound very Orlesian."

"It's not." Amell glared silently at him as he adjusted the weight of the pack on his shoulders. "The commander is waiting," she snapped, folding her arms across her chest, her foot tapping irritably on the ground.

Anders tried another angle as she prodded him to start walking. "So, how did you get into the wardens?"

Amell smiled at him, all teeth and no humour. "Blood magic."

"Huh." He scratched the side of his head. "Is it true that using blood magic can be terribly stimulating when-"

"Yes. It's also true that we sacrifice babies and bathe in the blood of virgins," Amell said, rolling her eyes at him. "Honestly, what did your Circle teach you?"

Anders held up his hand. "Well, there were the usual courses on annoying templars," he said, marking off his fingers as he began to make a list, "sleeping with your eyes open in class, slipping out of dormitories without being caught, how to be really quiet when you've got a girl against the wall and-"

"Oh, that," Amell waved a hand dismissively. "There's a way to alter a shield spell so that it absorbs sound instead of force, you know."

"Really?" Anders looked intrigued despite himself.

"Of course, you'd have to be a blood mage to actually get it to work," Amell added, laughing as his expression fell. "Here we are," she said, as she gestured theatrically to the entrance of a large tent, its blue and silver pennants flying gaily in the wind.

Anders swallowed, shuffling his feet. "Are you sure the warden-commander wants to talk to me?" he asked. "He must be so very busy, what with organising a whole squadron of wardens and preparing for a siege and navigating a foreign country - why, even the logistics of trying to feed us all must be so awfully tiresome - ow!"

Anders found himself pushed roughly past the entrance flaps of the tent, stumbling to catch himself before he trampled all over a map that had been carefully spread out over the floor. He straightened, rubbing his abused derrière as he tossed a resentful glance behind him. Unfortunately, the tent's entrance had closed again, leaving the target of his glare sadly ignorant of his bruised feelings.

The warden-commander did not even look up at him, instead concentrating on making a number of precise notes on a piece of parchment as he pored over the map. Guillaume was sitting cross-legged in Rivaini fashion, clad in a light, well-worn set of leathers, his forehead creased in concentration.

Anders thought of himself as a good judge of people - he'd had to be, as an apostate, trying to work out where he could likely find safe harbour and where he might just as soon be turned away and frog-marched to the nearest Chantry. (Of course, even he had made mistakes - Namaya was one that had left a particularly sour taste in his mouth.) But it seemed to him that Guillaume was not... exactly... what he had expected in a warden-commander. Perhaps it was only due to having Osric to base his expectations upon (and Osric himself was hardly a shining example of military discipline) but the Orlesian seemed just a bit too - uncomfortable? - in his role to make Anders feel any easier about being under his command.

Not that he had much faith in the man to begin with.

"Have you eaten?" Guillaume asked, without looking up. "There is food to your left."

Anders helped himself to a thick hunk of bread and a generous helping of cheese, devouring them both with a rapidity that made his stomach clench with an uneasy pang. He was starting on an apple when Guillaume finally looked up at him.

"I hear that your companions have departed for Gwaren," the commander began.

"Mm," Anders said around a mouthful of fruit. He swallowed, and then put down the slender core and picked up another apple. "They must have forgotten to wake me," he lied. "Still, weather permitting I should catch up with them in a day or two-"

"It is entirely your decision, of course," Guillaume said smoothly. He picked up his pen and parchment again, marking a note on one of the corners. "However, I do wish you would stay. I would greatly appreciate your aid."

Anders almost choked on the piece of apple. "You don't even like mages," he said suspiciously. "Or me, for that matter."

"True," Guillaume admitted. "My personal feelings aside, your history with the Chantry is blotchy at best. They have not yet forgotten the incident with the templars at the time of your Joining."

"That wasn't me!" Anders said indignantly. "Vigil's Keep was being overrun by darkspawn, and the templars were about to smite me if I even tried to cast something to aid them. Is it my fault that they were too stupid to see that I could have saved them from a world of pain? As it was, I barely made it out of there with all my limbs intact."

Guillaume corked his inkwell, wiping the nib of his quill clean with a cloth. "So you believe that the templars treated you unfairly, then? That all mages in Ferelden ought to be free from their jurisdiction?"

Anders folded his arms across his chest, eyeing the other man suspiciously. "It's... complicated. What is this really about?"

"Reports have confirmed that the Hero of Ferelden is indeed at Redcliffe. She was a Circle-trained mage, was she not? Your paths must have crossed at least once before." Guillaume was watching him with a carefully blank expression, almost appearing to be indifferent as to his answer.

Anders wondered how he was going to be able to wriggle out of this one. "When I joined the Circle I was already fifteen," he explained. "The Hero was just a child back then. I was in and out of the Circle so much, I barely got to know the younger apprentices."

"Your infamous escape attempts," Guillaume surmised.

"Not attempts," Anders argued. After all, the escapes had been successful, every one of them - the niggling fact that he had been found and brought back did not make them any less so.

He remembered meeting her after his second escape, having been discovered at Redcliffe village, dirty and bedraggled. Greagoir had sentenced him to solitary confinement for the first time, and Anders had been feeling thoroughly sorry for himself.

.

.

.

Anders was so very, very bored.

He had tried counting all the cracks in the roof and in the walls, and then counting them again and trying to calculate the average number of cracks per stone tile (seven point three, carry the two, so seven point three four something something...).

In his arms, Mister Wiggums yawned, showing his teeth, before settling back in a purring mass of curled-up contentment. The cat was covered in specks of grey dust from rolling around on the cell floor and the motes clung to Anders' palm, along with fluffy strands of cat hair, as he petted the animal. It was probably still light outside, he hazarded, so he couldn't expect a templar to be down here with his dinner for at least another three hours. Counting only took him about half an hour, and he was too weary to start thinking about what he ought to do for his next escape attempt. Maybe he should try to follow Mister Wiggums' example and go to sleep, although wriggling into a comfortable position with a heavy cat on his lap was a somewhat awkward proposition...

"Hello," a voice whispered to him, sounding not at all like a templar.

"Hello," Anders said cautiously, looking towards the front of his cell. A small face pressed itself against the bars; fair hair, and wide blue eyes over a pointed snub of a nose. The girl couldn't have been much more than eight or nine years, though it was hard to tell these things with elves. She held a finger up to her lips, her eyes darting around her fearfully in search of templars. He thought he recognised her from somewhere; probably not one of the new arrivals, then, so she had to know that what she was doing could land her into serious trouble.

"Have you seen a boy down here?" she asked. "A bit older than me, dark hair?"

"They took him up to the dorms already," Anders explained. They didn't really like to keep the young ones on their own for any length of time, so he must have done something really, really bad.

"Oh," the girl said, seemingly deflated. "He set Enchanter Valtane's hair on fire. I don't know why everyone was so upset. Jowan would never hurt anyone on purpose, it was an accident."

Anders wasn't so sure. Valtane had a certain reputation amongst the male apprentices. Not all rumours were true, of course, particularly in an environment as insular as the Circle, but still... it was enough to make Anders avoid the enchanter as much as he could.

"Is that your cat?" the girl asked, reaching a small hand through the bars. Mister Wiggums opened his eyes lazily, kneading his claws into Anders' thigh before leaping off and stalking towards the elf. He slipped easily through the bars of the cell, winding his body around the girl's ankles.

"He's the tower's cat, although he does tend to spend an awful lot of time down here in the damp. He seems to like you," Anders said, with a touch of envy.

The girl laughed. "It's because I've got food with me." She cautiously stroked the cat's forehead before running her hand down over his neck and across his back. Mister Wiggums arched into her touch happily, rubbing his cheeks over her knuckles. "He's so soft," she said, scratching him under the chin. "Mama never let me play with cats in the Alienage. She said that they had diseases."

"Mister Wiggums certainly does not have diseases," Anders said indulgently. "Do you, kitty?"

The cat made a throaty phrauww noise, before wandering back into the cell and plopping down on Anders' pallet. As he made himself comfortable, the cat somehow managed to take up most of the mat, lying diagonally across it with his hind legs outstretched. Anders was certain that the blatant disregard for his personal space was deliberate.

"Here," the girl said, holding out a small bag through the bars. "If Jowan is already upstairs, you'll need this more than him."

Anders took a peek inside. There was a piece of bread, slightly stale but still edible, an apple, and best of all, two small pieces of boiled candy. Mister Wiggums was suddenly awake and beside him, simultaneously trying to fit his furry head into the bag and get his teeth around the drawstring.

"Thank you," he said, gently pushing the cat away. "What's your name?"

The girl beamed. "Sylvie."

"Nice to meet you. I only wish the circumstances were more pleasant. I'm Anders-"

"I know," she said. "The other girls have been talking about you."

"Really?" Of course they would have been. His daring escape was probably being talked about all over the dormitories right now; he had been gone for a whole eight hours this time. The next escape would be even better, of course. He could see it in his mind's eye: Anders, perfecting the long-lost art of teleportation, a skill thought to be impossible, suddenly vanishing in the middle of a class whilst lovely young apprentices swooned at the sight of his raw magical power and irresistible charm.

"Yes." She clamped a hand over her mouth, looking suspiciously as though she was trying to suppress a giggle. "They said that maybe you should learn how to swim, the next time you jump into Lake Calenhad."

"I can swim just fine," he argued. "In fact-"

"Shh." The girl placed a warning finger to her lips, and then Anders heard it.

Metallic footsteps, coming closer.

Anders shoved the bag under a corner of the pallet, arranging himself in front of it and pretending to look nonchalant. The girl had already vanished in a swish of skirts, and he hoped that her escape route did not lead straight back into the path of another templar.

"Why Ser Bran, isn't this a lovely surprise," Anders drawled as the armoured figure came into view. "I was just getting tired of the sound of my own voice, too. Are you here to keep me company?"

Anders thought he could feel the templar frowning behind his helm. "Have you seen another apprentice down here? Little elf girl, about this tall?" At Anders' shake of the head, the templar sighed, muttering something under his breath. At length he stalked away, his boots echoing with a hollow ring upon the stone.

"Is he gone?" the girl whispered, poking her head out of an alcove that she had squished herself into.

Anders nodded. "Thanks again," he said, and she grinned brightly, disappearing up the stairs where Bran had just been.

When they finally let Anders out of his cell, it took him a few months of preparation before he tried escaping again. It was another three days before they found him, the search party led once more by Ser Rylock (really, that woman must have been obsessed with him, or something). It took the better part of a decade and then Uldred throwing the entire Circle into disarray for Anders to finally leave the tower for good, and what a relief that had been.

.

.

.

"I have had time to inspect these histories that Osric kindly supplied," Guillaume told him, gesturing to a pile of books in one corner. "I am not expecting Redcliffe to fall easily to us."

"Your people took Redcliffe in the Blessed Age," Anders shrugged. "Surely it can't be that hard." The sudden change in conversational topic had not made him feel even the tiniest bit more at ease, and he watched the warden-commander with a wariness he used to reserve only for templars.

"Interesting how you mention that," Guillaume said. "It was deception that won us that fight, in the end. We had connections with a member of the household, and from there it was simple to sow the seeds of dissent, or so our lessons tell us." He shrugged. "The reality of the matter is often somewhat different."

Anders saw where he was heading with this, and he did not like it, not one bit. "You're crazy if you think you can - I don't know, persuade the sodding Hero of Ferelden to betray her own people-"

"Are they her people, though?" Guillaume raised a brow. "It seems strange, does it not - a much-loved and lauded public figure disappears from sight for ten years, returning to raise what seems to be a veritable army against the country she helped to save from both Blight and civil war."

"So? People change."

"Hmm." Guillaume looked thoughtful, and then shook his head. "In any case, the decision may be out of my hands," he mused. "Do you know why we are stopped here?"

"Uh... no?"

"The bulk of the Fereldan templars are supposed to be joining with us for the rest of the journey," Guillaume explained. "I trust that some of them may be familiar to you."

Oh, great. Just what he needed. A lovely jaunt through the countryside, complete with suspicious glares from their metal-headed travelling companions. He wondered if they knew that the Order harboured blood mages like Amell, and what would happen if they tried to intrude on warden business...

"They will be bringing along their own mages as well. One of the things we intend to discuss is how best to manage our reserves of magical firepower, since I understand that the causeway leading up to Redcliffe Castle is longer than the range of most offensive spells." Guillaume drew out another map, laying it on top of the first. It was a diagram of what Anders presumed was Redcliffe Castle, bordered on three sides by water, with only a single walkway connecting it to the land. It was hard to tell just from the image alone, but the Orlesian was right: even shielded, there was no way a mage would be able to launch a lightning storm or blizzard at the defenders without exposing themselves to returning fire.

"I understand that your king has made some changes to the relationship between the Chantry and the Fereldan Circle," Guillaume went on, carefully gauging his expression.

"You could say that," Anders offered. "The main Circle is templar-free now, or so I understand. Some of the mages choose to remain under Chantry control, and their base is somewhere else. Though why anyone would volunteer for such a fate is beyond me. Mages who don't belong in either camp - those who aren't Loyalists or Libertarians, or wardens, I guess - the Chantry still brands as apostates, hunts down and kills."

Guillaume raised a brow. "So nothing really has changed?"

Anders shrugged. "I suppose not, although with no templars around, it would probably make certain clandestine activities a whole lot easier."

Guillaume sighed. "Still, the Circle at least provides some measure of safety from the world at large, I suspect. Tell me - do you truly believe that mages are better off without Chantry oversight? There are reasons why only the Imperium operates outside of Chantry rule, after all."

Anders shifted uncomfortably. He had seen echoes of the devastation from Uldred's folly when he had returned to the Circle to provide a lecture on the Architect, of all things. It had been all too apparent in the scant numbers of mages and apprentices who had been spared, the Circle's population thinned even further by the deaths in Ferelden's capital during the fall of the archdemon. Without the templars, the large tower had seemed almost completely empty, its winding staircases haunted by the past.

People did need to be protected from some mages, sure. Some mages were just crazy in the head. But Anders? He was as harmless as a very... harmless... thing.

"I hear that the Hero of Ferelden is also a Spirit Healer," Guillaume said, filling in the silence. "Is it true that such mages are even more susceptible to demonic possession?"

Most of the legends about the Hero revolved around her ability to kill things, not to bring them back to life. Still, there was that one time...

_Anders remembered standing in the tower library, reaching for a copy of_ Spirit Healers Through The Ages_, his fingertips brushing over the hand of the apprentice who had been seeking the same book. He had looked up, seeing the face of the little elf who had mysteriously grown up to be a young lady, watching her as she withdrew with an embarrassed giggle._

_"Take it," Anders had offered._

_"You really don't mind?" she had asked tentatively. He had tried to remember her name - there were so many apprentices in the tower, after all, and their numbers kept fluctuating as the years went on._

_"Of course not," he had said, rewarded by a grateful little smile as she had clutched the book to her and flounced off with it somewhere to study._

_One of his friends had poked him in the ribs, speaking in a loud whisper. "I wouldn't bother, if I were you. She's one of_ those_," he had said, elaborating on his words by wriggling a tongue obscenely between two fingers._

_Oh._

_Not that Anders had been thinking of her in _that _way, of course; she was much too young, and besides, he had already started planning for his sixth escape, which he was going to pull off any day now and-_

"I'm a Spirit Healer," Anders told the commander, wondering if he was damning himself. "All mages take risks by accessing the Fade. Sure, the Chantry says that demons can come across at any time, blah blah blah, but it's a possibility that training is supposed to prepare you for. Any apprentice who hasn't learnt that lesson generally gets picked off at an early age."

"It would explain a lot if the woman who slew the archdemon had somehow become possessed," Guillaume mused, as though he hadn't heard a word that Anders had said. "Would you think about it?" he asked. "About trying to communicate with her?"

"It's not as easy as sending a letter," Anders said. "Magic doesn't work that way. Besides, what would I say to her? 'Dear Sylvie, enquiring minds want to know: are you an abomination?' It lacks a certain subtlety to it, don't you agree?"

"Let me think about it," Guillaume said, before making a dismissive gesture. "Send in Amell, please," he added, before returning once more to his maps.

Anders rose to his feet, trying to work out a cramp in his leg. The blood mage was still hovering around when he stepped outside, and he waved her in, watching her duck under the heavy folds of the tent.

Well, that was... entirely not what he had been expecting. Using magic to contact a girl (woman) he had scarcely spoken to for more than a decade? To somehow try and convince her to turn around and leave Ferelden alone? Her, a figure of mythic proportions whose tale had become legend, but whom he remembered best as a child of eight or nine, passing him candy through the bars of a cell?

He should make a break for it now, he knew. The templars were coming, after all; once they arrived, sneaking away was going to become much more difficult.

Then again, his reception at Gwaren would doubtless be icy, judging from the comments on the note they had left him. And maybe, if they were lucky, the siege wouldn't take very long at all and he could be free from the Orlesians and the templars by autumn. Also, he was sure he could see Clarisse beckoning at him from across the way; he had a reputation to maintain, and the end of Justinian was scarcely more than a week hence.

There. He had decided. No more running; he would throw his lot in with the good little Andrastians and the foreigners and see where that got him.

(Hopefully it wouldn't be somewhere dark or cold or demon-infested or filled with darkspawn.)

Anders liked to think of himself as an optimist. After all, what could possibly go wrong?


	17. Beyond the Veil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With much gratitude to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> One of the things I loathe about ffnet is the complete lack of a tagging system and the impossibility of finding specific ships. That said, I was delighted to recently discover sisirongana's [A Series of Completely Unrelated Events,](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6210403/1/A-Series-of-Completely-Unrelated-Events) f!Cousland/Morrigan semi-oneshots, which you should totally check out if you haven't already done so.
> 
> I'm also going to plug the m!Surana/Morrigan parts of [Feneris' ](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/864870/Feneris)drabble series: 'Shadows', 'Reunion', 'Beauty'. I love darkfic, and Feneris has written one of the most disturbing 'happily ever after with Morrigan and god!baby' stories that I've read on this site O_o

**Redcliffe**

The sun sank down over Lake Calenhad. Light bathed the walls in a warm glow, reflecting yellow over the liquid-filled bowl at the centre of the room. The air shimmered, sunlight distorting in narrow waves as summer heat radiated from the windows.

Morrigan stood beside her daughter, with the Dalish keeper and her apprentice waiting at the back of the room. Ishantha sat curled up in the window seat, her head in her hands, watching the village fishermen returning from their day's work. Her foot tapped the edge of the seat in a repetitive motion.

"What is this?" Sylvanna asked, her eyes shifting from the Dalish across to Morrigan's daughter, and finally down to Morrigan herself.

"We need your help, Mama," Ishantha said.

Sylvanna stepped further into the room, approaching the pedestal that held the bowl and its precious contents. She took one long glance at the bluish liquid before tearing her gaze away.

"We seek a way to avoid unnecessary bloodshed," Morrigan explained. "We seek a truce."

"A truce," Sylvanna echoed. Her gaze passed over each person once more before settling on the bowl, drawn to it as though it were a lodestone.

She had entered the Fade consciously only twice before in her life, and each time First Enchanter Irving had been present: at her Harrowing, and at Redcliffe itself. Irving had never been unkind, at least not for a human. It had only been when Jowan had revealed himself to be a blood mage that she had realised just how little she meant to the first enchanter. She had been his - what did Uldred call her? - '_Irving's star pupil_', and he had not lifted a finger to defend her against Greagoir and the rest of the templars.

A blue haze shimmered above the lyrium. Oghren had said that the mineral in its raw form could be found by ear, singing through tonnes of solid rock. A siren's call.

"A truce with whom?" Sylvanna asked.

"The king," said Morrigan.

"My father," said the Child God.

"Alistair? What makes you think that Alistair is going to listen to me, of all people?"

"He was your friend, was he not?" Morrigan asked. "Surely you do not believe that he would listen to me."

Sylvanna gestured to the Dalish. "And their role in all of this?"

"The elvhen were the first to discover how to enter the Fade, fully conscious and aware," the keeper lectured, her green eyes half-buried under a pile of wrinkles. "Our services were requested to aid you in your journey."

Her first offered Sylvanna a slight smile, the tattoos on his face crinkling with the gesture.

"You expect me to somehow simply enter the Fade and what - find him amongst the thousands of other dreamers? What if he's not asleep? It's not even night yet! What if-"

"Do not speak as though we ask the impossible," Morrigan snapped, with more venom than was necessary. "You are both grey wardens, after all."

"We can find him through our blood," Ishantha explained, as she held out a small knife.

Sylvanna looked at the knife as though she had gone mad. "Our blood?" she asked, one eyebrow raised.

"Mine, because he is my father," Ishantha said. "Yours, because you bear the taint."

"The armies of the divine draw near," Morrigan said. "This may be our final chance for a harmonious settlement."

"You cannot seriously believe that he would withdraw," Sylvanna said, wondering which of the two of them, daughter or lover, had come up with the scheme. "You cannot-"

"The worst he could say is 'no'," Ishantha reasoned. "His lands have been plagued by successive wars and famine. It would be sensible of him to submit before more lives are lost."

"Alas, dear Alistair was never well-known for being sensible," Morrigan said.

"What if I said no?" Sylvanna asked. She heard the Dalish shifting uncomfortably behind her.

Ishantha wrinkled her nose. "I would cry?" she offered, sounding perplexed.

"Think of the consequences," Morrigan urged. "Consider the innocents you would spare from Her wrath," she said, with a nod to their daughter.

It was almost enough to make her laugh. Morrigan, concerned for the fate of strangers.

"Please?" Ishantha begged.

It was not so much what they were asking her to do, as the manner in which they had asked it. They already had the lyrium prepared. They already had the Dalish assembled. There was no question of whether or not Sylvanna would consent; they had decided what her answer would be.

Sylvanna looked across to Morrigan, then back at the bowl. "Before I change my mind."

Ishantha pricked her own thumb, a single, fat drop of blood welling to the surface of her skin. It was the first time Sylvanna had ever seen the girl bleed, and it looked so... so normal, as red and viscous as any other drop of blood. The child held it over the bowl, and the small, precious bead slid slowly over the curve of her thumb and tumbled into the lyrium with a bright splash of colour. Sylvanna could not be sure, but she would have staked her soul that the tiny cut closed up a moment later, though no chant was spoken and no tremor of magic stirred the air.

"Hold out your hand," Ishantha commanded. Sylvanna did so, expecting a pin-prick; instead the child sliced deeply into her palm.

"Why so much blood?" Sylvanna asked, trying to prevent it from dripping on the floor, her free hand cupped below the injured one.

"It will improve your chances to find Father," Ishantha said, her eyelashes fluttering in a slow blink.

Sylvanna frowned, but said nothing as she approached the pedestal. The glossy surface of the lyrium seemed to pulse with an inner light, colours gliding and shifting within the confines of the bowl. She drew a breath, and then plunged her hand into its depths. The blood from her palm spread upwards through the liquid like a bright ribbon of silk, colouring the bowl red until her vision turned entirely crimson.

The Veil parted before her, and she stepped through.

.

.

.

**Denerim**

"...and that is why, my lords and ladies, we must act now."

"Your suggestions are all very well and good, but what I cannot understand is what the Chantry intends to do with the Guerrins once this is over. The arling itself must be in chaos, surely. I-"

Chancellor Hernays placed a hand upon Alistair's arm, his low whisper cutting through the sounds of the discussion in the room. "Sire. Are you unwell?"

"Fine," Alistair said, taking a deep breath. "I'm fine," he repeated, hearing the conversation die away, the eyes of the assembled nobility all turning to face him. "I just need some air," he said, taking a step towards the door. Somehow his foot failed to connect properly with the ground. This was somewhat strange, seeing as he was a warrior born and bred, and a little thing like walking should have proved no difficulty at all. There was a jolt of pain as his head smacked against the floor. He ought to tell the housekeeper to get a nice, fluffy rug so that this awful feeling would not repeat itself the next time he landed flat on his face.

"Sire! Get the healers, quickly!"

There was the sound of his blood, roaring in his ears; it reminded him of the sea with its steady, soothing beat. He let it draw him down, cradling him in its embrace with the endless strength of the tides.

.

.

.

**The Fade**  
  
Sylvanna found herself in a shadowy corridor. High, vaulted ceilings stretched up overhead, illuminated by flickering candles. Everything had a slightly fuzzy edge to it, as though she was looking through the bottom of a cloudy glass. Long banners hung above her, showing two dogs rampant supporting a golden crown: the symbol of the kingdom of Ferelden.

Closed doors lined the corridor. Sylvanna chose one at random, opened it, and then ducked inside.  


. 

. 

. 

Alistair loped along at an easy, rolling pace, his senses on the lookout for darkspawn. Daveth trailed ahead, almost invisible against the terrain, whilst Ser Jory clumped noisily beside Alistair, eyes darting anxiously from side to side, as if expecting a genlock to jump in on him at any moment. And then the elf-

Wait. Where was she?

Alistair turned his head, seeing her limping along behind them. "One moment," he told Ser Jory, simultaneously signalling to Daveth to halt. He circled back, approaching the mage and giving her a worried look.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, wondering if she had taken in some kind of poison that her abilities could not purge. The smell of magic surrounded her with a faint, watery taste. It was much dimmer now than when they had started, the ebb and flow of it darting around her like a wild thing.

The elf shook her head, her shoulders hunched up around her neck. She had sharp, alien features, though they were not entirely hideous, Alistair supposed, if you had a taste for such a thing.

He had groaned when Duncan told him that their newest recruit was a mage, but she had proved her usefulness time and time again. Freezing hurlocks and spewing fire from one's hands was all very well and good, but Maker's breath, magical healing was a luxury that Alistair never wanted to be without. It was wonderful stuff - no need for bandages, no bruises, no mess, no pain - absolutely sodding brilliant.

"The outside... it's colder than I thought it would be," she said, through chattering teeth. She wrapped her arms around herself, staff clutched in a deathly grip. She was still wearing the thin, vivid blue and gold apprentice robes of the Circle Tower, presenting a garish stain upon the landscape and an instant target for any sharp-eyed archer. The bodice of it was already splashed with darkspawn blood, and Alistair made a mental note to ensure that she found something more appropriate when they returned to Ostagar.

"Here," he said, rummaging around in his pack. He produced a worn blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. "I was bringing this to protect the treaties once we found them, but you can wear it until then."

She adjusted the wrap, tying it to ensure that she retained full use of her arms. "Thank you," she muttered, so softly that he had to strain to hear it.

"Oh, I almost forgot - I picked this up from the emissary we fought earlier-" Alistair fumbled around in his pack, and produced a small glass vial in triumph, clear blue liquid sloshing around inside it. As he passed it to the elf, her face lit up in recognition of its contents.

"You're giving me lyrium?" she blurted out, clutching the vial to her chest as though he was about to take it away from her again. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"

"It's not like anyone else can use it," Alistair said. "You're obviously tired, and we don't know how many more darkspawn will appear between us and those treaties."

"You're a templar," she said, and suddenly the reasons for her paranoia became clear. "Templars don't just hand over lyrium to mages... without expecting something in return," she finished. Her hand clenched so tightly around the little glass bottle that he almost feared that it would shatter.

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute - I'm not a templar. Not any more. I mean, not ever. I never took my vows, remember?" He saw her hesitate for a moment, her wariness shifting to unsteady confusion. "You're a warden now," he continued, not unkindly, "and that makes you one of us. I guess we're sort of like... family, right?"

She only stared at him, eyes unblinking in the weak winter sun.

"Let's keep moving," he said, waving her on. In the distance, he could see Ser Jory gesturing anxiously towards him, clearly eager to be out of the Wilds. Alistair was forced to agree with the sentiment. "If we can get those treaties back to Duncan before supper, I'll be a very happy man..."

.

.

.

The images faded, and Sylvanna pulled herself back to the present with a start. Had she really looked so… so small? She remembered how tall and human and so very odd Alistair had seemed, how every fibre of her being had screamed 'mage-killer' when he had casually referred to his Chantry training.

At least she was in the right part of the Fade. She left the room, returning to the main corridor. As the door closed behind her, she looked at it thoughtfully, and then marked it with a piece of chalk from her robes.

She crossed over to the other side of the corridor, choosing another door at random, hoping that it would bring her closer to the man himself...

.

.

.

Kester's boat rocked ungently from side to side, and Sylvanna leant over, holding her hair back as she heaved up the contents of her stomach into Lake Calenhad.

"Are you all right?" Alistair asked.

"'m fine," she mumbled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. On her left, Morrigan rolled her eyes with an audible huff, whilst from her right, Alistair patted her awkwardly on the back. Shale sat opposite them, easily taking up most of its half of the boat, its weight barely balanced out even with the three of them and Carroll at the other end.

Shale shrugged with the sound of a small mountain shifting. "It is hardly my fault if its stomach is prone to spontaneously erupting."

Sylvanna groaned. "It's not you." The clouds parted, and the tip of the Circle tower emerged, yawning high above them. Morrigan had compared it unflatteringly to a phallus, and Sylvanna found herself unable to erase the image from her mind. It looked so much smaller from the outside, like something out of legend: the magical tower, filled with wise old bearded sages and their noble guardians, brimming with knowledge and mysteries and secrets, eagerly awaiting the return of its prodigal child...

If only.

"I know this can't be easy for you," Alistair said in a low tone. "Thank you, again. This is really the best thing we could do for Connor, I'm sure of it."

"I only hope we're not too late," Sylvanna said, biting her lip. She also hoped that Greagoir wouldn't try to make a fuss about the way in which Jowan had reappeared. She should have told the boy to flee instead of staying about the castle. Staying around for what? His execution? If Teagan called for his head, there was nothing she could do to stop him. Maker, how she wished things had gone differently. If only Jowan hadn't been so stupid...

"We're here," Carroll said, as the boat ground to a halt. Shale stepped out first, making the small vessel rock perilously from side to side. Sylvanna swallowed down what little remained in her stomach with difficulty, accepting Alistair's hand for balance as she stood.

"Follow me," Carroll said, though she knew the way. The apprentices would be taking down the Summerday decorations, wouldn't they? She felt a little flutter in her stomach at the thought of walking into the tower again, smelling its mingled scents of magic and old parchment, polished steel and lightning. It gave her a little ache that she wasn't quite sure how to interpret - nostalgia, perhaps. She and Jowan had played hide and seek in its dusty corners, found the best vantage points from which to spy on templars and enchanters alike. They had done so much together, and then-

She had to stop thinking like that.

"You look a little pale," Alistair said. "You should pinch your cheeks or something so that Greagoir doesn't assume that you died on the way over."

"Thanks, Alistair." News of her death would probably come as a relief to the knight-commander. She certainly couldn't see him grieving over her, at any rate.

They reached the massive double doors that were the only route into the tower. Carroll nodded to the two templars on duty, the men reaching for the handles of the doors and pulling them aside with dramatic flair. They probably practised that regularly, holding competitions for the templar who could make the best show of opening the portal to the inner sanctum of magi, Sylvanna thought sourly.

Light spilled out from the doorway, and they stepped through.

.

.

.

Sylvanna closed the door behind her, marking it with another piece of chalk. There were still many more that were unmarked, and she groaned with the thought that she might be here all night. She did not have time. Neither of them did.

She was doing something wrong, she knew it. But what? Finding Connor had taken her barely any effort at all, and the demon at her Harrowing - well, it had wanted to find her.

"Help me out here, Alistair," she murmured, running her hands over the doors. She felt nothing other than solid wood beneath her fingertips. Sighing in frustration, she picked another at random, and pulled herself through.

.

.

.

The Korcari Wilds were filled with strange, eerie noises. Alistair found himself startling at the slightest sound, completely unable to relax. At Ostagar, there had always been a constant murmur of activity, prayers and shouted orders; the ring of steel from soldiers practising their forms. But after Loghain...

No. He wouldn't think about it. Not for a while. The two women travelling with him already thought he was a soft touch; he hardly needed to give them more fuel to feed their bitter, resentful glances. How was it his fault that the entire rest of the wardens had died and left them alone to try to fulfil their rotting treaties? (It wasn't his fault, was it?)

Stupid treaties. Stupid Wilds. Stupid mages.

"So tell me - what was life like, living in the tower?" he asked with forced cheerfulness.

"You tell me, templar," the elf said, hunched over the fire. Flemeth's daughter had already stalked away to set down her bedroll, placing as much distance as she could physically manage between herself and the two wardens, and leaving them to squabble over who would take first watch.

"I told you, I was only trained as a templar. I never took my vows. And I didn't spend much time at the tower either."

"Hmph." The elf stared at him. She wasn't quite as creepy as Morrigan, having not yet perfected that I'm-going-to-turn-you-into-a-toad-then-swallow-you-whole look, but the vividness of her eyes, the blue of the irises too deep to belong to a human, had a certain... alienness to them that was disconcerting.

Just as he was going to give up on the conversation (if you could even call it that) entirely, she spoke. "What do you want to know?"

"Well..." Alistair floundered for a moment. "What did you do? You know, on a normal day."

Sylvanna sighed. "Slept. Studied. Avoided templars. Incredibly exciting, I can tell you."

"No funny stories?" Alistair pouted. "No silly pranks you played on each other, no drunken tales of debauchery?"

The elf's fingers twitched, as if itching to toy with something, or to fry him on the spot. Most likely the latter. "When I was thirteen, one of the apprentices became pregnant."

"That doesn't exactly sound like a funny story," Alistair said, just to fill in the silence that had opened up.

"She knew the consequences. We all knew them. There are ways to prevent it, of course - but I think maybe she wanted... no. I don't know." She shrugged. "It was foolish of her.

"When the Chantry came to take her son away, she seemed fine. Then a week later, she filled herself a bath, climbed into it and cast a lightning spell on the water."

"That's-" Alistair's face fell. "I'm so sorry-"

"The smell lingered in the dorm for weeks," she continued, not noticing his discomfort, or if she did, not caring enough to stop. "Then there were the templars. Most were harmless - stupid, ignorant, walking steel cans filled with hatred for us, high on lyrium and their own Maker-blessed sense of righteousness," she said with a sneer. "But some of them were... cruel."

She wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders tucked in as though if she made herself small enough, she could disappear.

"Well, you're free of it now." He could have been one of those templars. Most of them were probably as trapped as the mages they watched over.

"Yes, because this is so much better."

It wasn't all that bad. Well, sure, their entire Order had been betrayed and slaughtered, a good man he had come to look up to as a father was dead, and the fate of Ferelden seemed to be left in the hands of a bitter elven mage, a callous, templar-slaying apostate, and Alistair himself.

On the other hand, surely things could not possibly get any worse.

"Go on," the elf said. "Get some rest. I'll take first watch."

Alistair opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. "Wake me when it's my turn," he insisted. "Promise?"

She merely shrugged, returning her attention to the fire. Alistair wondered if it was a good idea to leave her alone on watch. Were her senses keen enough now to actually warn them of approaching darkspawn before it was too late? He yawned involuntarily, his body making up his mind for him. Well, who was he trying to fool; they were probably all going to die horrible, violent deaths anyway; what difference did it make if the end came sooner rather than later?

His last vision before closing his eyes was the elf's profile, outlined against the fire. Funny that, he thought drowsily, in the glow of the light, she almost looked human...

.

.

.

He had asked her about the tower.

She had forgotten, the detail slipping from her mind in the midst of the endless stream of conversations that had come after, most of them much more pleasant.

There had been a time when everything changed, hadn't there? She had pulled down her defences, let him see her - the terrified, green novice that she was - and then they had became friends, as though it had always been that way.

She held the memory foremost in her mind as she leant against a door, feeling the grain of the wood against her forehead. (Not real, she reminded herself. None of this was real.)

The handle swung open at her touch, and the vision descended upon her.

.

.

.

_This wasn't supposed to happen._

_This wasn't_-

Sylvanna stumbled back a step, her toe stubbing on a protruding rock behind her. She had gotten herself separated from Morrigan for some reason, losing her in the throng. They were supposed to stay together, to be easier to protect, but all she could see were half-a-dozen hurlocks circling in like a pack of wolves flocking to the scent of blood on the air.

Her hands flashed as she mumbled the words to a spell, a ring of psychic energy radiating out around her. Only three of the darkspawn went down.

_Oh Maker, not this, not now..._

Another two hurlocks fell prey to the blast of frost that emanated from her fingertips as she counted down the moments before the effects of her first spell wore off. _Two seconds, tops,_ she thought as she ran for cover, passing between frozen bodies without looking back. The last hurlock roared his defiance behind her, the sound of his footsteps ringing with a rhythmic thudding in her ears.

"Fall back!" Alistair shouted, and she looked up to see him waving his arm towards the other side of the road.

A dark shape darted beside her, and she turned in fear before realising it was Thetus, the dog colliding with a snarl into one of the hurlocks following her. A flash of bared teeth and the darkspawn fell to its knees, howling in pain as blood fountained from a wound on one of its legs.

"Good boy," she said approvingly. "Leave it."

Thetus cocked his head to the side in dismay but obeyed, easily overtaking her with his effortless strides. As they neared the others, she felt a rush of heat behind her, inhuman screams filling the air as Morrigan's fireball sent bodies tumbling to the ground.

She had almost caught up with the others when a sharp pressure caused her to fall flat on her face, jarring pain shooting up her arms as they took most of the impact. She twisted her head to look behind and saw a genlock stepping on the hem of her billowing robes, sword drawn and glistening with blood.

_Hands_, she thought frantically, her weight pinning her arms beneath her as she tried to wrest them free. _Stupid, stupid... dear Andraste, I'm too young to die, this isn't fair..._

The whistling sound of the genlock's blade heading towards her was interrupted sharply by a metallic ring of steel. She scrambled forwards as the pressure relented from her robes, turning to see Alistair locked in combat with the genlock that had been about to run her through. Light glinted off the templar's pale hair where his helm had fallen off, the man yelling a battle cry like some legendary barbarian general. The genlock hesitated and it cost him his life, the edge of Alistair's shield catching under its chin just after his sword stabbed through its chest, spraying the templar in an arcing splash of blood.

The stragglers that had survived Morrigan's fireball were just as easily dealt with, their deaths almost an afterthought as Thetus tore out the throat of another darkspawn and Alistair sliced the head off a burned hurlock.

When the last of them had fallen and Sylvanna discerned that their group had taken no serious injuries, Morrigan strode over to her with an unfriendly expression on her face.

"Hand me your dagger," Morrigan demanded.

Sylvanna drew it, offering the blade hilt first. "What are you-"

Morrigan grabbed a fistful of her robes, slicing into the fabric just above knee height and ripping it along the grain. She used the dagger again when she encountered a seam, the cloth neatly splitting until the entire hem of Sylvanna's robes had been cut away.

"There," Morrigan said coldly, passing the blade back, "that may well save your wretched life."

Sylvanna's face burned with embarrassment. There was an awkward silence, and then Thetus barked his approval.

"Well, I'm glad you like it," Sylvanna muttered under her breath. "You don't have to live with cold knees," she said, self-consciously reaching down to tug her stockings up a little higher.

"Spring will be upon us in a week's time. I somehow doubt that you will freeze to death before then. What say you, Alistair?" Morrigan asked, with a sidelong glance at the templar.

"Huh?" the boy looked up with a creeping blush to his cheeks. "Very... sensible," he managed at last, as Morrigan chortled with evident delight.

Chantry boys. One would think they had never seen a pair of legs before.

That night at camp, Sylvanna finished binding the last of Alistair's wounds with a self-satisfied sigh. "All done," she said, tucking in the end of the bandage so that it would not work its way free.

"Thanks," he said, preparing to stand.

Sylvanna placed a hand on his arm. "Wait." He gave her an uncertain look, but sat back down again. "I... need to thank you. For saving my life."

Alistair shrugged. "It's fine. I probably owed you one, anyway. How many times have you brought me back from the brink of death now?"

"Seven. And a half, if you count the incident just outside the Tower of Ishal. Not that I'm keeping score or anything."

"Right," he said, looking at her dubiously. "Anyway... well. Think nothing of it."

"Alistair, I..." she squirmed, fiddling with her hands in her lap. "I think I owe you an apology."

He raised a brow. "Oh, this should be good."

Sylvanna took a deep breath. "I haven't... exactly... been nice to you-"

Alistair snorted. "I'll say."

Her brow crinkled as she tried to decide whether or not let that comment pass. "Anyway, I'm sorry. I'll try to forget that you're a Chant-loving, mage-killing machine who's been pushing me to take the lead even though this is the first time I've stepped outside a secluded tower in over sixteen years."

"And I'll try to forget that you're a demon-drawing, over-powered, spell-slinging crazy kleptomaniac with an enormous chip on your shoulder."

Sylvanna's cheeks coloured. "Kleptomaniac? It was just that one time!" she insisted. "The man was dead, he wasn't going to have any use for that coin!"

"It wasn't just that one time, and you know it."

Sylvanna made a face, and poked him in the stomach. "He didn't need to eat. You do. End of discussion."

Alistair sighed, and they glared at each other. "Fine," he said eventually "Truce?"

Sylvanna held out her hand. His calluses rubbed against her skin, too-large fingers clasping over her own, his grip betraying a hidden strength.

(It was strange how certain details stood out in her mind. The pressure of his grasp, the feeling of his skin - it would become familiar, in time; once she knew him well enough to seek comfort in his tragic humour, understanding in their shared memories; but not yet.)

"Truce," she agreed, and her fear of him slowly waned until it seemed as though it had never been there at all.

The Blight brought them together, but it was their friendship that bound them tighter than blood.

.

.

.

When the visions faded, Sylvanna turned, searching for the door that led back to the hallway. Her hands encountered a blank wall, the stone feeling slightly warm to the touch. She shivered, her fingertips tingling, and then she heard the voice.

It sounded like the boy she had met so long ago at Ostagar, and somehow nothing like him at all.

"Sylvanna," Alistair said.

"We need to talk."


	18. A Royal Audience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> I was originally planning to address Alistair's issues earlier on but it probably works better from the man himself. Really, a few of these things are probably gossipy bits of knowledge that Sylvanna ought to have picked up already, but let's say for argument's sake that she's had other things on her mind.

**The Fade**

"Alistair," the warden said, turning to face him, her back against the wall where a door had once been. He had aged well for his kind, not a hint of fat or waste on his frame, clad from head to toe in widower's black. The subtle beginnings of lines around his face gave him a distinguished air, suggesting more the look of a king than the Chantry boy he had been, so long ago. She was less certain about the goatee on his chin. Even during the worst of the Blight he had always tried to be clean-shaven, and the change shook the mental image she had preserved for over ten years.

"You look very... human," she finished lamely, but the words she had prepared would not come. She had known he would be different - that he had to have changed, that leadership would have marked him in ways she had not anticipated. But the reality of actually seeing that change was something else.

"Funny that. I suppose if I had three heads and breathed fire then that would be more agreeable to you?"

"I just-" her breath caught in her throat. "It's good to see you again."

"Right." Alistair walked around a desk to stand before her, and there he was, in that gait that was so familiar it sent a subtle ache to her heart to see it again. "Not that I had a choice in the matter. You know, there are procedures for this. If you'd wanted to talk to me, I'm sure a clerk would have happily given you a form to request an appointment."

"Alistair, we don't have time."

He laughed, and that too was new - the utter bitterness of his voice. "I remember. How did you get into the Fade? Blood magic? Who did you have to kill to reach me?"

"No one. We... we had lyrium. No one had to be sacrificed."

He eyed her coldly. "You should not have returned to Ferelden."

"Alistair, will you please listen to me?" she shouted, the sound ringing too loudly in the confined space of the study. She put her hands over her ears until the echoes died away. "You need to surrender. Your daughter will not stop until she has brought your country to its knees, no matter what the cost."

He remained uncharacteristically silent, and Sylvanna followed the direction of his gaze until she noticed the portrait hanging above the fireplace. It was a formal painting, and she almost mistook the subject for King Maric rather than his son before recognising the set of Alistair's mouth and the line of his jaw. He looked happy, in a stiff, ceremonial way. Much to Sylvanna's surprise, the woman seated next to him was not Anora, but a dark-haired beauty whom she had never seen before in her life. The woman held a small infant in her arms, a poised smile upon her face.

"I have a child of my own now," Alistair said aloud, following the line of her thoughts. "My true daughter."

She felt something twist just below her heart, a phantom pain she had thought long since extinguished.

"Andraste's arse, if you had just killed Morrigan when you were supposed to, none of this would have ever happened!"

"What happened?" Sylvanna asked through nerveless lips. She watched him, this stranger who had taken the place of the former comrade in her mind. "Alistair... what happened to you?"

She could almost see the general in him calculating risks in his head, weighing up the costs of each action or inaction. He extended an open hand to her, palm turned up, and she stared at it dumbly until he spoke.

"Let me show you, Sylvanna," King Alistair said. "Let me show you what peace has cost me."

His fingers curled around her own as she placed her hand within his, her nails pressing against his skin. She glanced up at him, hoping for some reassurance, or at least a hint as to what was going on, but Alistair's eyes were as empty and unfathomable as the surface of Lake Calenhad.

Her vision changed.

.

.

.

"You're late." The King of Ferelden clasped his hands behind his back, the afternoon sunlight warming his face. Below him, the bustle of palace life continued unabated, servants and knights and squires criss-crossing the yard in various states of industry.

"Perhaps it is you who is early, Your Majesty."

Alistair turned. His 'guest' had already settled himself in the king's favourite seat, one leg sprawled casually over the arm of the chair. His head was tilted back and a glass had already found its way to his hand, the wine glistening blood red within it. "A fine vintage," Zevran said. "From Antiva, is it not?"

"Can you give me what I want?"

Zevran chuckled, his voice taking on a smooth, seductive purr. "Alistair, my friend, where are your manners?" He wagged a finger slowly. "Surely there is still time in your terribly busy schedule for pleasantries, yes? How are you faring? It has been - what - five years, already?" The elf whistled. "Time is such a tricky whore - always running away from you."

"Zevran, just tell me-"

"Master Arainai, please. Or just Zev, if you prefer." The elf took a sip of the wine, smiling insolently in that smug, lecherous way of his that Alistair had always despised.

"Zev, then-"

"Sire," the assassin said, with a flourish and a seated half-bow.

"Was it Eamon?" Alistair ground out the words one at a time.

"I should impress upon you that this is not standard Guild procedure," Zevran said. "Discretion is part of our service, after all. I am only here because we have a shared history together, no?"

"Get to the point." Oh, what he wouldn't give for the chance to throttle that smug grin off the elf's face...

Zevran sighed, twirling the wine glass stem between his fingertips. "He employed a number of amusing distractions, but yes. Arl Eamon ordered, and paid for, the assassination of Queen Anora."

The world seemed to stand still. The silence was only broken by Zevran's deliberately noisy enjoyment of the wine, the elf half-closing his eyes in affected pleasure.

"Who carried out the contract?" Alistair asked, sounding just as hollow as he felt.

"Ah..." Zevran set his glass down, gesturing in a vague flourish. "That, I cannot tell you. But know that my hands are clean of this."

Alistair scowled.

"Truly, my friend, had I heard of this... absurd little plot, I would have ensured that the contract was never accepted, at least not by the Crows. I truly believe that Ferelden needs a strong queen - in fact," he said, taking on a mournful expression, "I personally shed a tear when I heard the sad news-"

"Do you have proof?" Alistair cut in.

"You have my word."

Alistair sighed as he began to pace, and ran a hand through his hair. Maker, what had he done to deserve this? Eamon had cautioned him, with increasing fervency over the years, to put Anora aside and choose another wife, one who could give him an heir... but he had assumed that it had simply been well-intentioned concern. He had never thought - had never dreamt - that Eamon was even capable of going so far. He still struggled to believe it.

"I understand this puts you in a rather difficult position," Zevran continued, his sharp eyes tracking the king's every movement. "Anora's supporters will no doubt call for revenge, if they hear of this, and Eamon's men will likewise scream bloody murder - pardon the pun - if you so much as lift a finger against him, even if do you manage to procure some kind of evidence. It is a delicate situation, indeed..."

"I'm not a very patient man, Zevran," Alistair scowled. "Spit it out. What do you intend for me to do?"

The elf's lips curved into a wolfish smile, and he stood gracefully, not a whisper of sound accompanying him. "Simply put, if the arl was to have an 'accident', of sorts... after all, he is no longer a young man, and such things happen to the best of us... then all parties would be satisfied, yes?"

"An accident," Alistair echoed.

"A painless one, of course."

"Death is never painless - no, wait - why am I even considering this?" Alistair scowled, his brow furrowed. "I should turn you out for even suggesting-"

"Sire, please. Try not to let the whole of Denerim hear your ranting."

Alistair sighed and sat down, his elbows propped on his desk, fingertips trying to massage the sudden onset of a headache from his temples. "This is insane. I shouldn't even be thinking-"

"I understand that congratulations are in order, Sire?" Zevran asked.

Alistair looked up, his eyes shadowed.

"I deeply regret that I will be unable to attend the nuptials, but alas, Antiva calls-"

"You weren't invited."

Zevran continued on as if uninterrupted. "I have seen your blushing bride from a distance, and she is quite the beauty. I understand why you would want to remarry, so soon after poor, dear Anora's demise..."

"Leave Elissa out of this."

"There is a term we use in Antiva," Zevran said, as though he was bestowing pearls of wisdom upon a petulant child. "'_La lama oscillante._' A blade that has already tasted blood carries a certain... momentum. How long before Arl Eamon condemns your new bride to the same fate as your beloved Anora? Will he grant her a year? Two? You are not getting any younger, my friend, and the fact of the matter is that your chances for an heir are growing ever slim-"

"I - it doesn't matter," Alistair said roughly, cursing the waver in his throat as it betrayed him. "I - Maker's breath, Zev, I love her."

"Then there is no question. You will do all you can to protect her."

Alistair groaned, shaking his head. "I am not doing this. Tell me I'm not doing this?"

Zevran smiled, a predatory grin that reminded him strangely of Morrigan, of all people. He was clearly going senile in his dotage.

"You must have a great deal on your mind, Sire," the assassin said, as if following his thoughts. "Just say the word, and I assure you - this unpleasant matter will be dealt with. Professionally, of course."

He was turning into Loghain. Maker help him; he was no better than that murderous bastard who had set the country upside down, inciting civil war and betraying his friends and family alike.

"Do it," Alistair said, with the voice of the condemned. "Do it - but then I want you and all your Crows out of the country. For good."

Zevran chuckled. "Washing your hands clean of us? I understand. I can promise you this, Alistair: you will never see me again. The others... they are not mine to direct. You must understand, we have contracts, a reputation to uphold, and-"

"Fine." He wanted the assassin out of his palace; out of his life. "Fine. Just - just go. Please."

The elf gave him an ironic little bow, the smirk never leaving his face. "You are most welcome, Sire," he said in syrupy tones. He turned away from the king, gliding over to one of the windows, and sliding the glass pane upwards in one graceful movement. Alistair watched him warily as the Crow tilted his head towards the courtyard, a pensive look in the elf's eyes.

Zevran gestured towards the king's dark, tailored outfit. "A little advice, Alistair, as one friend to another: black is so very much not your colour. Do try to take better care of Elissa than your last queen, won't you?"

An angry retort rose to Alistair's lips, but as he drew the breath to make it, the elf was gone.

.

.

.

Alistair's hand fell from her grip as the memories of what had passed faded away. The king turned aside, his features drawn.

"Oh, Alistair," she said miserably, "Alistair, I'm so sorry..."

"I think it's a little late for that, wouldn't you agree?"

Teagan must have known - if not about Eamon's orchestration of Anora's death, then about Alistair's revenge for his fallen queen. The arl had been on the verge of telling her, she was sure of it now.

"I always thought Eamon's concern was avuncular," Alistair murmured, as though talking to himself. "I laughed him off. Anora and I were too busy to raise a child, in any case. We would have groomed a successor, taken a ward from one of the noble families to prepare them for the throne. What did it matter whose blood ran in their veins?"

Sylvanna wondered why he was confiding in her, then realised the awful truth: he had no one else. She had taken him from his brotherhood within the ranks of the grey wardens, denied him a life free from sycophants and courtiers, placed him in a position where the man he had trusted most had secretly schemed to murder his wife.

Suddenly, Sylvanna felt so old.

"But your queen - the mother of your daughter-"

"Elissa," he provided, with a glance towards the painting. "She... this will sound absurd. She was travelling on a diplomatic mission to Antiva, and her ship was lost at sea. Our daughter was barely aged two at the time."

Sylvanna tried to think of something comforting to say, something to express her intense sorrow at the pain he must be concealing, but the words stuck in her throat.

"It's funny, isn't it?" Alistair observed. "Considering the way that my - that Maric died, the priests wondered if the Theirin line was somehow cursed. In any case, the women in my life all seem to meet untimely ends. Except for you, of course," he added, almost as an afterthought.

Sylvanna was at a loss to respond to that, her lips unable to form an adequate retort as Alistair eyed her with a weary patience. The colour of his tunic gave his tan a sallow appearance, ageing him prematurely. Zev was right: black did nothing for his complexion.

"Here I am, wasting your time with the boring details of my life. What have you and Morrigan been doing? Apart from raising a demon child bent on conquering my country and anything else it seems she can get her hands on."

"That is unfair, Alistair. She is not-"

"No." His voice cut through the air, effortlessly penetrating without being quite loud enough to be called a shout. Anora must have taught him that. "You cannot pretend to yourself, Sylvanna. Look at what she's done! Morrigan's child is no benevolent darling, come to shower the good people of Ferelden with sweetness and light."

"You don't know her like I do-"

"I don't need to. You want me to come over and play house with you?" His voice took on a sarcastic edge. "Make believe that we're one big happy family?"

"Alistair, will you please speak seriously?" She should have known that this was a mistake from the start, that she would be unable to reach him. She had not been expecting them to fall into their old friendship, far from it, but neither was she prepared for this bitterness, this hatred.

"Fine," he agreed, opening his hands in surrender. He watched her with a suspicion bordering on paranoia. "Let's talk. You promised me that you were going to kill Morrigan. What changed?"

Sylvanna glanced away. She remembered the house in the middle of the woods, the song... warm hands encircling her, keeping her safe. "I didn't come here to discuss Morrigan."

"That's too bad," Alistair shot back at her. "I trusted you. I thought we were friends. Maker's balls, Sylvanna, I even took the throne for you! Because you begged me to! Loghain left us a kingdom bled dry by both civil war and the Blight. Do you have any idea what it was like, rebuilding from that mess? No, you really don't, do you?"

"Alistair, please..."

"If you hadn't pushed me to become king, Anora would still be alive," he snarled. "Eamon would be alive."

_Elissa would be alive._

The words remained unspoken, but she heard them as though he had shouted at her from the top of his lungs.

Sylvanna looked at him incredulously. "Is that what this is about?"

Alistair laughed again, shaking his head. "I'm just getting started," he promised. "You abandoned the grey wardens, Sylvanna. You abandoned me."

He began to pace, long strides following a well-worn path in the surface of the rug that stretched across the room. "I thought you were dead," he said in a softer tone. "Until word came from Redcliffe this year, I had assumed that you and Morrigan must have finished each other off. But then Anora-"

"Your wife sent templars to my child when she was only four," Sylvanna said, remembering the sight of gleaming armour, stained with blood and glistening under the pale afternoon sun.

Alistair's voice was devoid of warmth as he glanced towards her. "I was unaware at the time. Now, I can only wish that they had been successful."

The words of a spell came to her lips easily enough, power that sought to freeze the blood in his veins and suck the breath from his lungs, but Sylvanna managed to swallow them down with difficulty, watching as she saw the same process reflected in Alistair's face. He would be bringing the Chant to the forefront of his mind, gathering the talent needed to disable a mage. At this short range, it would be anyone's guess as to who would be able to land the first blow.

"So now that you're finally back," Alistair continued, without taking his eyes from her, "is it to apologise? Is it to make up for the ten years you were gone? You brought me a Maker-forsaken army of all things, and the soul of an archdemon who has been bleeding my country dry."

"The food shortages - you don't think that those were our fault? Alistair-"

"They were terribly convenient for you, weren't they?" He scowled, and began to pace again. "No one would have followed you if you hadn't promised them something better than what they already had. And since contented people want for nothing, you needed to create some sort of demand. A famine was the perfect solution-"

"That's impossible," Sylvanna said, wondering if it was so. The hardships in Ferelden had started three years ago. Ishantha had only unlocked her powers the previous summer. Hadn't she?

Alistair laughed. "You have no idea of what you're dealing with, do you?" he asked. "You and Morrigan both."

"Alistair-"

He cut off her words with a wave of his hand. "I trusted you. I even-" he broke off with a sound of inarticulate frustration.

"What?" she asked, watching as his eyes darted to the portrait hanging over the fireplace.

He gestured vaguely, defeat in the line of his movement. "It doesn't matter," he sighed. "I just - I expected more from you, Sylvanna."

His disappointment weighed down on her like a shroud.

"I am offering this to you because we were once friends," she said. "Please take this chance, Alistair. Negotiate a truce with us. She will make Ferelden the most powerful nation in all of Thedas, if only you will listen to reason-"

"And what does She want in return?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Sylvanna took a deep breath. She walked over to the desk, her fingertips trailing over the sharp corners of its surface as Alistair watched her every movement like a hawk. "Love," she said, raising her eyes to meet his. "She wants to be adored. Needs it."

"And?"

"The dissolution of the Chantry, at a minimum."

"That is not within my power to grant."

Sylvanna shook her head. "You underestimate Her influence. The Maker has already abandoned us, according to the Chant of Light. She is here, whilst He is not. Give Her time and the freedom to act with impunity, and She will bring the Chantry to its knees."

A light shifted in the king's eyes. "You've changed," he accused. "Where is that frightened little girl from Ostagar who shrieked every time it rained and was afraid of getting mud in her boots?"

She leant over the desk that stood between them, her head tilted slightly to one side as she looked up at him. "Dead and gone, like the boy who blushed to see a woman's legs and was forever losing his socks."

Silence lingered heavily on the air, something twisting in Alistair's expression like a shadow passing over water. "How did we come to this?"

Sylvanna ignored the question and closed her eyes for a moment, concentrating. She could feel the Fade growing more real around her, colours becoming brighter, textures gaining definition with each passing second. Her time was running out.

"What is your answer, My King?" she asked, opening her eyes. "I am warning you now - if you deny Her, countless innocents will suffer. It will be a massacre. Worse than Ostagar-"

"No." Alistair smiled, watching her with an expression that was completely devoid of humour. "At Ostagar, we were unaware of our betrayer. Now I am staring her in the face."

Sylvanna could not help but flinch at the accusation, her eyes narrowing in disapproval. "You are condemning your nation to war," she said. "She will not rest until you surrender."

"There will be no peace," Alistair declared, each word falling from his lips with an imperial gravitas. "There can be no accord between us, Sylvanna."

Her hands tightened, her face twisting into a sneer. "Then you are a fool, as Morrigan said you would be."

"Perhaps," he agreed. "But I am no traitor." He took a step forward, and Sylvanna instinctively moved back, her hands half-raised to cast a spell. "I wish the Blight had taken you, and Morrigan both," he said, taking another step forwards. "If Duncan could see this now, he never would have saved you."

"Alistair-"

There was the sharp ring of steel, and the king drew his blade, raising its point to the level of her throat. "Get out," he said, biting off his words like a curse. "Out of my head. Out of my dreams."

She dodged his first swing, putting space between them as he rounded upon her, deep shadows falling across his face as he watched her press her back against the wall.

"Goodbye, Alistair," she said, gathering her strength to sever her connection to the Fade.

"If we should ever meet again, I will not hesitate to kill you."

"Then at least we are in agreement on one thing," Sylvanna said, and released her grip on the world.

She passed through the Veil a second time, and then knew no more.


	19. Opening Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With much adoration for my wonderful beta, oneplusme, and with thanks to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> So in advance, an apology: I spent a few weeks in June reading up about medieval sieges circa 1200 AD, but honestly it was really boring and I personally hate doing research (Ishantha does too), so I gave up on it.
> 
> Also, I have to say that game canon didn't help either - the codex seems to suggest that Redcliffe Castle is pretty well fortified (the whole being stuck on a corner of Lake Calenhad seems to help - so you would expect that it'd be near impossible to mine the place), but then when the Final Battle quest starts, you find darkspawn in the courtyards (so they must have gotten through the first two or so gatehouses, despite only having arrived recently and despite all your allies being stationed at Redcliffe), right up at the door that leads into the main hallway... wtf? That made absolutely no sense imo. I know, the whole purpose is so that the warden can come in and kick ass, but it's still silly.
> 
> Okay, enough ranting from me...

**Redcliffe**

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Anders asked plaintively, wincing as Amell nicked the back of his hand with the point of a dagger.

"No, you idiot." She tilted his hand to let the blood coat the head and shaft of an arrow. "Of course I'm sure."

They had arrived in Redcliffe a week prior, their forces now consisting of Fereldan and Orlesian templars, Loyalist mages, Orlesian wardens and Anders himself. It made the whole chain of command thing rather confusing, to say the least. As far as he could figure out, it was a templar who was in charge of the entire affair, but where that put Guillaume and the rest of the wardens, he was at a loss to say.

Amell released his hand and he muttered a healing charm over the wound, the flesh knitting together instantly. The blood mage finished tying a small scroll around the base of the arrow, her fingertips stained crimson.

Jehanne (whom Anders recalled only as Clarisse's grumpy friend) murmured something irritably to Amell, who responded in Orlesian.

"I'm right here, you know," Anders complained. "If you're comparing notes on how dashingly handsome and virile I am, I won't be at all offended if you just want to come right out and say it-"

"The balance is off," Jehanne said, hefting the arrow in her hand. "It will not fly true."

"You just need to get it in the general vicinity of the target," Amell said. "The spell will do the rest."

"Why did it have to be my blood, anyway?" Anders whined.

Amell sighed. "We've been through this, haven't we? Look, out of all of us here, you're the only one who has met this so-called 'Hero of Ferelden'. That connection and the taint you share should be enough to make sure this reaches her."

"What if we miss?" Anders insisted. "What if the arrow skewers her instead?"

Jehanne smiled wickedly. "Then I collect the reward for bringing down the fabled hero."

"Wait, there's a reward?"

"Shut up." Amell's lips moved silently, hands fluttering over the arrow as it rested on Jehanne's open palm, the light distorting around her. Anders' blood seemed to drain from the wooden shaft, leaving it spotless.

"Now," Amell said, and Jehanne notched the shaft to her bow, taking aim. The two mages watched as it soared up into the air, flying towards Redcliffe Castle, the speck swiftly disappearing from view.

"With our luck, we've probably killed someone important, like the only person who would have surrendered to us, or something," Anders muttered under his breath.

"Weren't you watching that fiasco a few days ago?" Amell asked. "The templars sent an envoy, offering terms for the castle's surrender. They barely escaped with their lives."

"Pity," Anders said. He could have done with an early victory. He would have even made do with a few dead templars; that was always worth a laugh.

Amell brushed invisible specks of dirt from her hands. "It's done now, anyway. You can tell Guillaume that, when you see him."

Anders sighed. "We're going to be here all year, aren't we?"

"Stop whining," Jehanne scoffed, rolling her eyes. "How hard can this be?"

Anders was pretty sure that they were about to find out.

.

.

.

Sylvanna's hands had taken on a dark stain, the colour seeping into the whorls of her fingertips as she pounded fibrous lengths of elfroot into a lumpy paste. The walls of the storeroom were already lined with stocks of poultices, bandages, potions... and still she wondered if it would be enough. She paused a moment to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and a drop of moisture from her fingertips transferred to her skin, sliding down her neck in a reddish-brown trail.

Lutharius, the Dalish First was around somewhere, sent by his keeper to assist her; two healers to account for the hundreds of civilians and soldiers that were stationed at the castle. Simply thinking about the work ahead was enough to make her bone weary.

(Ishantha was versed in the mechanics of healing, unlike her mother; Sylvanna was sure of it. But she had never seen the child extend her hand to another in aid. It was a strange omission, a hole in her training that Sylvanna felt she ought to have remedied by now-)

_Thud._

She looked up with a start, the noise coming from the storeroom door. "Lutharius?" she asked in confusion, wondering why the elf would not have merely knocked or called out to her.

She set down her pestle, wiping her hands clean. Opening the door revealed an empty corridor, her particular storeroom being in a distant wing of the castle, though muffled sounds of activity travelled loudly enough to her little corner. She stepped outside, taking a look around, and then she noticed the arrow embedded into the door frame.

The fletching was unfamiliar to her, clearly not of Fereldan origin. She glanced towards the gatehouse and the causeway, beyond which the forces of the divine were encamped. No one could shoot so far and at such altitude; not even Leliana was so skilled.

It took only a moment to unwrap the scrap of parchment from the shaft of the arrow, holding up the fragile wafer to the light. It was stained around the edges, brownish-red like Sylvanna's hands, and she frowned as she read it.

_Friend_

_We both know this needs to end peacefully._

_We are willing to discuss terms._

_Send response by day's end._

_Your PAL_

A vague smudge finished off the missive, looking almost like the paw print of a dog or some other animal.

"A love note, _lethallan_?" Lutharius' voice caused her to jump, the elf appearing suddenly behind her.

"Yes," she said, the parchment combusting in her palm until nothing was left of it but specks of ash.

The elf shrugged, still smiling and seemingly unconcerned by her atrocious lie. He ducked inside the storeroom, his arms burdened by supplies, and Sylvanna breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

A flicker of nostalgia made her bite her lip as she carefully brushed her clothes free of soot. The moniker at the end of the note had only given her pause for a moment. Brave, magical Ser Pounce-a-lot, the templar-killing tiger that Anders had fondly sketched, defacing books and desks alike in the Circle tower. Where had he learnt how to find her like that, she wondered?

Shaken despite herself, she tucked the arrow into her sleeve before any one else could come across it, and ran towards the main keep.

.

.

.

The Knight-Commander of Denerim watched on as his men dragged away the bodies of the two elves they had captured. The captives had not revealed anything remotely useful, not even under duress. Bayard had not been convinced that they were even capable of speaking the king's tongue, or any civilised language for that matter, but the Orlesians had insisted upon trying to press the issue.

Over the last few nights, the constant raids from the Dalish had resulted in a dozen deaths, spoiled food supplies, and the utter destruction of one of their siege engines. The elves also appeared to be allied with wolves, of all things. One of his men had been found, so badly torn apart that the corpse was no longer recognisable as even human, and much of the destruction had an animalistic flavour to it that had rattled the troops. Every dire howl, echoing through the dark of the night had left them all on edge, unable to sleep.

And this was all they had to show for it in return.

Bayard tried to convince himself that he had taken no delight in hearing their screams, in listening to the snap of fragile bones or the eerie hiss of burning flesh. But the men (and the lone woman) he had lost were, if not friends, then comrades; they had deserved a better death than being stalked and gutted in the night by bands of roving knife-eared heretics and bloodthirsty animals.

"No messages?" he asked his second, the man handing him a spyglass.

"No, but look at this." The templar gestured vaguely in the direction of the castle as Bayard lifted the lens to his eye, wondering what he was supposed to be looking for. "Close to the keep, on the eastern side. Do you see?"

Bayard played with the focus, using his other hand to steady the instrument. "Archers, servants... wait, that's a mage shield, isn't it?" he murmured, squinting at the tiny image of a dark-haired woman, surrounded by a faint shimmer of light. He proceeded from a near-unconscious appraisal of her chest to look more closely at the much shorter figure by her side. He lifted the lens away from his face, rubbed his eyes, and then looked again.

"She looks so... normal, doesn't she?" his second offered.

Bayard had not always been an exemplary templar. An indiscretion in his youth had led to the birth of a daughter, the girl resembling her father too closely in the shape of her lips, the set of her nose for him to doubt her mother's assurances that the child was his. He had supported them both as well as he could, paying for the girl's apprenticeship in Denerim and ensuring that neither went hungry, but that had been the extent of his involvement, for obvious reasons.

She would be perhaps twenty four or twenty five now, most likely with a family of her own; the girl on the parapet could not have been more than ten, and yet her eyes, her features were undoubtedly the same...

It had to be a trick of the lens, of the light, or Bayard's own delusional mind that twisted the sight of her so, but he could not help himself and so raised the scope for another look.

"She's gone," he said. His second took the spyglass from his nerveless hands, confirming his words.

Bayard tried not to think too hard about the twisting feeling in his heart, tried not to grant it substance by lending it a name. He supposed he could term it relief that the girl had vanished, an exhalation of anxiety to find the parapet empty, or something else; something more unbecoming to his station.

_Love._

.

.

.

There was a shuddering noise as something impacted against the base of the gatehouse. Morrigan wondered if she was supposed to be impressed. The templars had at least two trebuchets with them; an earlier attempt had resulted in the projectile chipping off a piece of the causeway leading up to the castle. The divine's forces had had sufficient time to make accommodations for the wind and the incline leading up to the keep, though apparently their calculations still fell a little short.

Morrigan had the impression that the templars were testing her daughter, trying to anticipate her reactions, to provoke her into overextending her reach. Ishantha had already shown her contempt for accepted military protocol by trying to set a diplomatic envoy on fire; unfortunately her aim still left something to be desired and the man had not, in fact, been burnt to a crisp.

Her child's reaction to being besieged was to both ignore and delight in it, often at the same time. It was entirely... perplexing.

"I don't remember ever being in a siege before, Mother," Ishantha explained, wide-eyed with anticipation as she watched their archers exchange volleys, standing in the relative safety of the inner parapet. "I think it's rather exciting, don't you agree?"

"Not precisely the word I would use," Morrigan drawled, her mind elsewhere. Half her thoughts were focused on maintaining the shield she had erected around the child and herself, in the unlikely event that a stray projectile found its way to them, and the other half were pondering the templars' next move.

"Shall we take a closer look?" Ishantha asked with barely restrained glee.

Morrigan finally turned to glance at her, one eyebrow raised. "'Twould seem that you have taken leave of your senses. Shall I call for the apothecary?"

Ishantha pouted. "I want to see the rest of it. What they are doing with those machines. It shan't take long, I promise."

Her mother sighed, the weary sound of a long-suffering parent. "You have scouts for such a purpose," she said, as her daughter drew her brows together. "Oh, very well," she snapped, when it became clear that her child would not relent.

Ishantha clapped her hands together, flush with victory as she transformed. A moment later, and in her place was a juvenile merlin, her wings half-spread with an eager flutter. Morrigan sighed again, taking the shape of a larger falcon, her shield dissolving with the change. Ishantha barely waited for her mother to prepare herself before she was in the air, a streaking arc of brownish feathers cresting on the wind.

Morrigan followed dutifully, letting the thermals guide her as she rose higher, one watchful eye on her daughter and one on the ever-distant land below. Ishantha's new body rolled and swooped, cartwheeled and spun in tight curves; anyone watching her erratic flight would have known she was no true bird. Fortunately for the two of them, the humans below were too preoccupied to pay them much mind, but still Morrigan ensured that they remained clear of the arrows that whistled through the air below them.

Ishantha had always expressed a peculiar fascination for birds, in taking their forms and learning their contours. Morrigan had been forced to add a number of shapes to her own repertoire simply to keep pace: kestrels and sparrowhawks, white-breasted eagles, tawny owls... the list continued on and on. Once, Ishantha had confided in her that long ago, birds had been featherless, and in fact, exceedingly similar to dragons. She had said it with such conviction that Morrigan had found herself disinclined to doubt her, despite the immense absurdity of the idea.

They flew over the enemy lines, Ishantha circling as she decided where to settle. She lost altitude swiftly, plunging downwards at such a rate that Morrigan would have been hard pressed to follow had she not been keeping a careful watch on her daughter.

They nestled in the branches of a tree, overlooking a group of templars. Morrigan forced her heart to calm, knowing how unlikely it was that one should look up and see them for what they truly were. Despite their training, few templars were so sensitive as to detect the truth of her altered state; in any case, there was sufficient ambient magic emanating from the divine's own mages that she felt quite sure that their presence would pass unnoticed.

'Quite' sure was somewhat different from incontestably sure, however, and so it was with a wary eye that she peered down at the armoured figures below them.

"Hand me the waterskin, will you?" one of the templars asked. His companion obliged him and the first man drank deeply, rivulets trailing down his chin as his throat bobbed with the movement. Morrigan had to fight the overwhelming urge to rip out the great vein in his neck, and she shifted uncomfortably on her branch, talons digging in deeply as Ishantha fluffed her feathers beside her.

"This is pointless," the second templar murmured. "We should get the dwarves to rig up some sort of explosion and blow the whole place up."

"Aye," the first templar agreed, handing back the waterskin. "It's just politics - the arl's still in there, or so they say."

"Maker-less heathens, the lot of them."

Morrigan stole a sidelong look at her daughter, attempting to hide her boredom. This was no reconnaissance mission. If there was any information of use within the men's thick skulls, it seemed impossible that they would have the good fortune to stumble across it, even if they sat and listened to the two rabbiting on like old women all day.

"What was that noise?" one asked sharply, his eyes drifting upwards to where the two raptors were perched.

"Don't scare yourself," the other templar chided. "The Dalish won't be back for a while yet, not after what we did to the last lot of them."

Morrigan watched Ishantha turning her head, scanning the templars' encampment. At the far end someone had stripped down a pair of saplings to act as makeshift poles, each one topped with a grisly head. The ears of both corpses appeared to be somewhat pointed.

It was enough for her daughter, it seemed, and she took off, startling the templars again with the rapidity of her movement. Morrigan would have enjoyed their squeals of surprise if she had not been so irked by what little forewarning she had been given; she took to the air with a world-weary snap of her beak, her wings beating with powerful strokes until she drew near to her daughter once more.

.

.

.

"Say a peach costs one silver and six coppers. Cook gives you a sovereign and asks you to buy six peaches. How much money do you give back to Cook?"

Teagan watched his daughter scrunch up her face at the question. She looked down dismally at her slate, as if the figures written there would magically reveal the answer to her.

"If I'm buying six," Roslyn said slowly, "shouldn't I ask for a discount?"

Teagan laughed quietly, ruffling his daughter's hair. "Very well. The fruit seller relents to your charms and now the price of each peach is ninety eight coppers. How much money is left over from the sovereign?"

Roslyn frowned. "If the price is so low, then I would want to buy at least twelve peaches..."

The lesson was interrupted by a loud thud, portraits trembling in their frames against the castle walls. Muffled screams filled the air, followed by shouts that were too distant for the words to be discernible.

Kaitlyn looked up from over her needlework, her face strained as she let her mask of domesticity slip long enough for Teagan to see the fear in her eyes.

The arl placed a hand on his daughter's shoulder. "We'll stop here for the day," he said with a false cheerfulness. "Go to your mother now."

Roslyn did as she was told, Kaitlyn gathering the girl close to her. Teagan walked to the window, pressing his face to the glass as he peered out. It faced out onto the courtyard, and he watched as soldiers and servants hustled to and fro, busy with a multitude of errands. From one corner of the sky he could see black tendrils of smoke trailing upwards, though from his vantage point it was impossible to tell where the fire was coming from. It had to be somewhere within the castle though, that much was clear.

"Darling, come away from there."

Teagan tore his eyes away from the view with difficulty, forcing his hands to unclench as he looked over at his wife with a tense smile.

"Father, when can we go outside?" Roslyn asked, with a slight waver in her voice.

"Not yet, my sweet," Teagan murmured, leaving his fears unspoken. Kaitlyn accepted him into their circle with open arms, and the three of them huddled together. The illusion of safety was only slightly spoiled by the sounds of distant screams and the feeling of the castle trembling around them, small puffs of debris drifting down from the ceiling like the first fall of snow.

.

.

.

Morrigan and her daughter landed on the parapet in a rush of feathers, picking up their discarded clothes and dressing with complete disregard for modesty. The soldiers around them tried to pretend that they had just spotted something of infinite interest upon the horizon.

"You appear to be inordinately distressed over a few elves," Morrigan observed of her daughter. "Did you at least glean from those two Chantry-driven fools something of value, I wonder? Something worth risking both life and limb?"

"I was getting cramped here."

"That reasoning will not suffice."

Ishantha pursed her lips together. "I couldn't reach them," she admitted. "Neither the templars, nor the priests. Their faith in the Maker protects them, like blinkers on a horse. It blinds them."

"And this is problematic," Morrigan surmised, keeping her tone light.

Ishantha grinned, and there was the dragon in her, the brilliant gleam of teeth and the subtle shifting in her eyes. "Oh no. They will die just as well as any other men."

Morrigan sniffed, but before she could respond, there was a frantic burst of sound blossoming out from the courtyard, screams and then the dull smack of flesh upon stone.

They followed the noise down. Morrigan smelled the corruption before she saw it, an odious perversion of life, twisted into something entirely other. She felt Ishantha shrinking back against her, and she had to place a hand on the girl's shoulder to keep her moving forwards.

As they rounded the corner, they came upon a scene of devastation. Pieces of darkspawn flesh were littered across the courtyard and walls, oozing congealing blood. The spread of debris was too scattered for the forces of gravity alone; the attackers must have enchanted the missiles to explode on impact, spreading the taint as widely as they could.

Morrigan had to admire their ingenuity, even as she cursed their luck in managing to scrounge up sufficient darkspawn to act as impromptu projectiles. Ishantha took her hand, squeezing it hard enough that her bones ground together.

"Sylvanna," Morrigan shouted down, forcing her voice to carry. She saw the elf glance up before hurrying towards them. Her hands were coated to the elbows in blood, a fact that Ishantha did not fail to notice, judging by the way she hid behind Morrigan's skirts and tried to use her mother as a human shield against the taint. Morrigan found it difficult to express her vexation at the gesture.

"Where have you two been?" Sylvanna asked, looking harried. "They began hurling bodies at noon. Almost a dozen have come in contact with the taint already. They-"

"Kill them," Ishantha said, her eyes wide. "All of them, and then burn the corpses."

Sylvanna frowned. "Men and women have been known to recover-"

"The risk is too great," Morrigan said sharply. "If we tarry too long, then the infection will spread."

Sylvanna hesitated, and Morrigan glared at the warden, silently willing her not to argue, and not to incite her daughter's wrath. "Very well," the elf said at last, sullen to the end, and left them to their own devices.

Morrigan made a mental note to ensure that the bodies were properly disposed of.

She turned back to her daughter, who remained uncharacteristically silent. A faint shimmer of magic surrounded the girl: some sort of shield, as though she feared that merely breathing in the stench of darkspawn flesh would fill her with corruption. Ishantha stared at the carnage below with a look of glazed horror, her thoughts frozen by an instinctual terror so deep and ancient that Morrigan feared it would be her undoing.

"What will you do?" Morrigan asked.

Her daughter's small hand clenched into a fist. "What I should have done when this all began," she said, in a tone that brooked no disagreement. "Send the divine a message that she cannot ignore."

Morrigan raised her brows. "And how, pray, do you intend to do that?"

Ishantha smiled, her pupils narrowed to reptilian slits, eyes shining with a bloodthirsty eagerness. "Come with me and see," she beckoned, and then ran down the stairs of the parapet with an unerring grace, weaving effortlessly in between soldiers, fast enough that her mother had to hurry to keep pace.

_Come with me and see_.

Her daughter commanded, and Morrigan, with only the slightest misgivings, obeyed.


	20. Devotional for an Old God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some words have been appropriated from the Chant of Light. As always, Dragon Age belongs to BioWare.
> 
> With many thanks to my lovely beta, oneplusme, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**Redcliffe**

Morrigan's headache grew worse by the minute, and Sylvanna did nothing to improve matters. The warden had adopted a petulant tone far better suited to a small child or an incompetent templar, and since she was neither, the jarring disparity was entirely vexing.

"This is unconscionable," Sylvanna complained. "I can't believe you went along with this. You do realise, don't you, that Her people are out there dying-"

"Sylvanna, for the sake of both my sanity and my temper, be quiet," Morrigan growled. "And clean yourself up before you touch that," she snapped, as Sylvanna reached for the set of robes spread out over the coverlet.

There was a peevish sniff of disapprobation, and then the sound of splashing water as Sylvanna washed the rest of the blood off her arms and face. Morrigan watched in the small mirror above the dressing table as she pulled the robes over her head. They were of an archaic design, comprising of a white linen tunic edged with gold trim, over which a dark purple stole was draped. The entire ensemble was probably worth more than a year's salary for most.

"Here," she said, as Sylvanna struggled with a brooch. Morrigan lifted the ornament from her fingers, attaching it to the stole and drawing back to examine her work.

"Thank you." Sylvanna eyed herself warily in the mirror, smoothing the tunic over her hips as Morrigan took a comb to the unruly tangles of her hair.

"Ow!"

"Be still. If you had only braided this neatly, 'twould not be in such a dreadful disarray." Gradually under her ministrations, the snarled mess was tamed and Morrigan even managed to work it into a half-decent bun, affixing it to Sylvanna's scalp with a pair of jewelled pins.

"This is... ridiculous. It's just a spell, isn't it? Not some diplomatic dinner? We are at war. Hardly the time to play dress up!"

"Do not let her hear you say that," Morrigan chided. "She is not simply planning to cast a spell."

"What then? What is it you're not telling me?

Morrigan shrugged, glancing aside. "I am as enlightened as you are in this matter," she said, the lie coming easily to her lips. "'Tis a ritual. One that will save the lives of many in this castle."

"You should be the one assisting her, not I."

"There are other duties I must attend to," Morrigan said, extending her arm in a graceful arc as she gestured to the door. "Do not keep her waiting."

Sylvanna made a doubtful face. "Are you sure-"

"Just go."

Morrigan counted to ten once she had left, then stepped outside. The ugly stench of burning flesh poisoned the air; the final count of those infected by the darkspawn taint had been close to thirty.

She heard the elf before she saw him, Lutharius closing in with deliberately loud footsteps so as not to startle her. A wise move, that one; any fool careless enough to get in her way would likely suffer for it.

"You are prepared, then?" Morrigan asked.

Lutharius inclined his head. "All will be well. I will do as you request."

"When the signal comes, do not hesitate, or it will be too late."

"Of course."

Morrigan thought she could detect a hint of resentment in his tone at her daring to question him, but it was pointless to pursue the issue. He would do his duty well enough, and that would have to suffice.

"The instrument," Lutharius murmured, holding a box out to her. She took it almost greedily, taking a peek inside and seeing the yellowed bone flute, cradled in its protective casings. It had been a gift from a pair of Tevinter worshippers, ancient and precious beyond measure. Morrigan carefully lowered the lid on the box, tucking it within a deep pocket of her robes.

"She will come to no harm," Morrigan said, as though she was reassuring herself.

"Certainly, Blessed Mother."

Morrigan's head snapped up as she heard the unfortunate sobriquet she had somehow acquired, in spite of her best efforts to stamp it out. She glared at the elf for good measure, despite his respectful and otherwise inoffensive demeanour, before turning and stalking away.

.

.

.

There was a room in the north wing of the castle on one of the upper levels. It had been abandoned for years, cobwebs lurking in the corners, the air stale even though the windows had been open for hours.

In the middle of the room was a large oaken table. Its legs had been shortened dramatically, leaving it standing barely taller than the height of a bed, its surface shrouded over with a sheet of pressed linen. Creamy yellow candles had been placed at the table's four corners, their wicks unlit. A young Dalish hunter stood next to it, dressed in a plain white tunic; behind him, Ishantha waited, watching the smoke rising up from the corpses burning in the courtyard.

The Child God was dressed even more formally than Sylvanna, her hair bound up with strands of gold and pearls. Jewels dripped at her throat and wrists; the light sparkled from them, casting rainbows onto the blank walls of the room. She was as much a magpie as her mother, in so many ways; Sylvanna had often caught her 'borrowing' Morrigan's necklaces and rings as a young child, admiring herself in the golden mirror that Sylvanna had given Morrigan during the Blight. (It was something of a miracle that Morrigan had kept it for so long; Sylvanna remembered coming across it with a start, her hands shaking as she reached to trace the etched sparrows and deer.)

"You're here," Ishantha said, pleased. She gestured to the boy, the bracelets clinking on her wrists. "This is Varin, Mama."

"_Aneth ara, hahren_," the hunter said to her with a cheerful grin. He was quite slight, though the muscles in his bare arms stood out clearly with additional bulk showing on his right shoulder; presumably the result of years spent drawing a bow.

"Varin is the third grandchild of the keeper," Ishantha provided. She held out her hand, and the hunter took it, gazing down at her with open adoration. She smiled at him, seemingly guileless, and led him towards the table. Varin lay down on it obediently, ankles pressed together and arms crossed over his chest, as though he was preparing himself for his own funeral.

"Why is he here?" Sylvanna asked.

"Oh, Mama," Ishantha sighed. "For a mage, you can be so very dull at times." She leant over the table, brushing Varin's hair back from his forehead. His face crinkled into a crooked smile, showing a chip in his front teeth as he gazed up at the ceiling, apparently completely unconcerned.

"This man is a sacrifice," Sylvanna surmised, her voice dull with horror.

"I prefer the term 'martyr'."

"Does the keeper even know?"

Ishantha's laughter was bright and filled with amusement. "Of course! You have the strangest notions."

Sylvanna considered. The boy seemed not to heed their conversation, or at least not to care. "His purpose is to lend you strength, then? Why is this necessary? Your followers are dying as it is-"

"There is power in a life freely given," Ishantha said, gently trailing her fingertips over the boy's _vallaslin _as he closed his eyes. "That is why they tell you, as grey wardens, that one of you will die at the end of the Blight. Duty begets sacrifice…"

"But that's because the archdemon's soul transfers-"

Ishantha waved a hand dismissively. "That is merely a formality. It is the symbol that is important. The willing lamb, led to slaughter… that is the source of the transference of power."

Sylvanna felt something twist in her gut. That should have been her, she remembered. She should have died at the top of Fort Drakon, should have been that sacrifice. "Why him?"

"Varin was one of the first to hear my Call," Ishantha said, with a touch of pride. "His love for me runs deep and true. It is a glorious thing."

"I can't watch you do this." Even as she spoke the words, Sylvanna knew she would do all that and more.

A small crease appeared in the middle of Ishantha's brow. "This is an honourable thing, Mama. Many, many lives will be saved by Varin's noble offering." She clasped his hand briefly; he looked up at her with that crooked smile, completely trusting. Sylvanna felt nauseous.

Ishantha snapped her fingers, and the candles at the edge of the table flared into life. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that it was still daylight, the flames only serving to add further heat into the already sweltering room.

It was all so very childish, Sylvanna thought. The costumes - the table - the candles. It had the air of a staged production, of Ishantha playing dress up in her mother's jewellery. She would have laughed had it not also been so serious.

"What do you want me to do?" Sylvanna asked.

"Simply bear witness."

"Surely Morrigan would have been a better choice-"

"Mama, you're ruining it." Ishantha passed her hand over her eyes, sighing in a way that reminded Sylvanna so much of her mother. "Just be quiet and try not to think too loudly, please?"

Sylvanna subsided into a disgruntled silence, taking a step back from the table. There was a time where she would have been prepared to defend the boy's life to the end, to argue that there was another way. There was always another way, wasn't there?

That belief had made her a terrible warden. She could see that clearly now: saving Connor, preventing Greagoir from annulling the Circle; they had been stupid, risky decisions, measuring the lives of the few against the many and finding in the former's favour. It was only by the grace of luck or happenstance that those choices had not backfired against her, in the end. Duncan would have been deeply disappointed. Alistair had completely failed to see that hardened core of steel in his mentor, that oft-used mantra of the grey wardens to do whatever it took, no matter what the cost.

Of course, it wasn't darkspawn that they were fighting here. It was fellow wardens, Fereldans, templars and mages. The same people that she had fought to defend, so many years ago.

Then there was Ishantha, and she came out the cipher.

The child began to chant. The language crawled over Sylvanna's skin and into her ears, creeping into her brain and slithering eerily into her mind. It was not Elvish, or even Arcanum, something far older, spoken long before humans came to the land and advanced against the elves. Varin on the table opened his eyes; Ishantha cupped her hands around his cheeks, sliding them down to his throat. Part of Sylvanna wanted to look away, but she found that she could not, watching as Varin parted his lips slightly, tilting his chin towards the ceiling.

Ishantha whispered another string of words, and Varin exhaled, his life ebbing out of him in a thin stream of light. There was no screaming, no noise, just the gentle transference of power from one vessel to another.

In less than a minute, there was nothing left, just crisp white linen and a faint trace of red dust remaining on the table. In contrast, Ishantha was glowing with power; it seeped from her skin and ringed her in a golden halo, drifting off the tips of her hair. No archer could fail to mark her presence now, even in a crowd.

Ishantha babbled excitedly, the ancient words taking on a completely different tone as she fluttered her hands in pure joy, the path of her fingers tracing a golden outline in the air.

"I can't understand - slow down," Sylvanna insisted.

Ishantha switched to Fereldan, her words still tripping over one another. "It's glorious," she enthused. "So very different to the offerings from the Days of Abasement. I think it's because he loved me so very much." She tilted her head to the side slightly. "Do you suppose that's the case?"

"I don't know."

"You should go and find Lutharius," Ishantha commanded, heading towards the door. In the wake of her passage, the candles on the table guttered out.

"And what will you do?"

Ishantha turned to her with a wink, her eyes gleaming with childlike glee. "I'm going to go and see Mother."

.

.

.

Ishantha scampered up to Morrigan with a disturbing levity. Power literally dripped off the child, the air distorting around her outline with a peculiar shimmer. Morrigan forced herself to suppress both her awe and jealousy; neither emotion was particularly becoming in a woman of her position.

"You appear to have had some success," Morrigan said.

"Oh Mother, it was incredible!" The gems at Ishantha's wrists caught the sunlight as she gestured. Morrigan noticed with displeasure that her daughter had made extensive use of her personal jewellery collection. "He was so very satisfying. I think I shall have to institute this as a regular ritual. Perhaps every year, do you suppose? Although I'm not sure at all if I could wait a whole year between occasions. Perhaps every season would be appropriate, with the honour shared between different regions each time-"

"Perhaps we should concentrate on the task at hand," Morrigan said, only partly attentive to her child's babbling as she scanned the horizon. At the far corner, the besiegers had managed to push a tower close to the edge of the wall. Part of the sacking atop the tower had been set aflame, but the fire had been burning steadily for some minutes and seemed to be contained. There were screams from the closest defenders, and then a sharp, brilliant burst of crimson, clearly visible even from Morrigan's vantage point. It seemed that there was a blood mage tucked away somewhere in the burning tower; she had to admire the audacity of the manoeuvre, even if their advantage would not last for long.

"Very well," the child agreed, too cheerful to be concerned by the interruption. "Once this begins, I will be effectively bound to complete it. No matter what happens. Do you understand?"

"I am aware. We have discussed this at length," Morrigan added, unable to disguise the irritation in her voice.

"They've brought their mages up to play," Ishantha said, watching as another burst of blood clouded the air along the parapets near the siege tower. "Why don't those archers move out of range? Do they want to die so badly?" The halo of light flickered around her. "Those lives are mine and I won't have them being thrown away so easily-"

"Then focus," Morrigan hissed. Ishantha's agitation subsided, her outline stabilising.

"Shield me." After Morrigan did so, Ishantha continued up the stairs to the inner parapet wall, Morrigan following closely behind.

A hail of arrows greeted them as they reached the top of the wall, largely skimming over Ishantha's head, due to her height, but one or two of the projectiles bounced off the shield. It was hard not to flinch when they whistled close by her; Morrigan gritted her teeth and tried not to think about the resulting spray of blood and bone should her spell fail.

"I am ready," Ishantha said. She looked to the sky, dark clouds gathering overhead in ominous portent of a summer storm. Rain would likely hinder their cause more than help it; there were darkspawn-infected corpses still to be rid of, and it nullified any advantage they might have had over the attackers' wooden siege engines and towers.

Morrigan reached into her robes and handed over the slim bone flute that she had taken from Lutharius. Ishantha caressed it lovingly, eyes darkening in fond remembrance before she raised it to her lips.

Morrigan had been briefed extensively on what to expect and what to do, and yet... nothing had prepared her for this.

The first thin, eerie notes pierced the air like a revenant's blade passing through armour. A hush settled throughout the castle. Soldiers lowered their weapons, heedless of what danger could befall them; the dying silenced their pain-filled cries; even the birds and distant wolves subsided into an expectant silence.

The Child God paused, taking a deep breath, and then Her song truly began.

Morrigan had little with which to compare it. She had heard minstrels before of course, as they passed through Lothering; King Bhelen had insisted on throwing a celebration in their honour at the resolution of the dwarven throne, and her shuddering memories of what the dwarves considered music still haunted her dreams. She had heard Leliana's voice and the bard's skill with a lute, and that, whilst admittedly not displeasing, held no comparison.

The sound wrapped itself around her mind, threatening her concentration; it was all she could do to maintain the simple shield, though the arrows had long since ceased to fly. The notes skipped over her consciousness, lovingly, with only the merest breaks as Ishantha paused for breath between each phrase.

Beneath the almost joyful trills and effortless legato, there was a clear message, woven firmly into each piece of melody. Morrigan had no doubts as to its meaning, even though it was not intended for her to follow; she could not suppress a shudder in her bones as she clenched her hands tightly into fists, willing herself not to listen.

The song spoke of blood and the ecstasy of a successful kill. It spoke of slaughter and death and the aching intimacy of sensing a life draining away beneath one's fingertips.

Morrigan watched the colour flushing to Ishantha's cheeks as she played, blind to the world. She imagined the tune carrying to the farthest reaches of the arling, even as softly as the sound lingered in her own mind. The halo around the Child God pulsed in a sympathetic rhythm, as Ishantha breathed in light and breathed out pure sound.

Morrigan suddenly thought about Sylvanna, and her hands trembled.

.

.

.

Bayard knew they were in trouble when that damnable music began to play. It sounded as though it came from all around them, insinuating itself into his brain. Doubtlessly magical in origin, it set his nerves on edge; he was unwillingly reminded of the life he had left back in Denerim, and the daughter whom he never saw. He turned to shout a command, and then stopped in horror, completely aghast at the sight that befell his eyes.

There were Chantry-sanctioned spells that could disorient a person, force them to attack a friend or leave them so weakened that they simply stood still, unable to act of their own free will. In Bayard's mind, these spells were as dangerous as blood magic, and ought to be banned; had he been in charge of the Circle Tower, he would have made it a priority. Greagoir was a good templar no doubt and probably even a devout Andrastian, but in terms of his charges, he lacked a certain practical ruthlessness.

Almost to a man, the wardens suddenly stopped still in their tracks, looking up towards the castle with glazed expressions of adoration. Bayard had seen that look before, in the eyes of someone being held captive by a maleficar; the mage had been using him as a human mana source. What was worse, though, was that the man had seemed to even enjoy it. When Bayard ran the maleficar through on the length of his sword, the captive had broken down and cried, even after he had been cleansed of any residual spells. The whole experience had been deeply unsettling, made worse after the man had tried to attack them, driven wild with grief.

Bayard's templars looked around them, perplexed; here and there one of them tried a cleansing, even though he could have told them that it would be no use. This was no ordinary spell, to be broken by a simple wave of the hand and a careful manipulation of the Fade. A soft murmuring rose up amongst the ranks, expressing perplexity at the strains of music that had reached them.

No one but Bayard was watching the wardens when they attacked.

It took the templars by surprise. Bayard winced as he saw a woman's head being separated from her torso; from the far end of the camp, he felt a tempest suddenly swirl up from nothing, cries of distress arising from those caught in the storm.

Bayard would have assumed that the Orlesians had simply betrayed them, but it could not be so - he watched as a warden turned upon one of their own templars, the unfortunate victim jabbering for mercy in their foreign tongue as he was neatly skewered. Some of the wardens seemed less susceptible to whatever magic was driving them; he saw one attack another of their own, tears running down the man's face as he slit his comrade from neck to navel.

Then there was no more room for thought as Bayard found himself cornered by a trio of wardens. Their faces were bestial, savage; any last trace of humanity burnt away under the control of their false god. Bayard allowed himself to be pressed backwards, wielding his sword defensively, his shield arm throbbing with pain as shock arced through his muscles. Another templar came to his aid, catching the wardens by surprise; Bayard put the reprieve to good use, seriously wounding the woman in front of him. She let out an unholy shriek and the wardens seemed to rally around her, letting out a blood-curdling yell that sounded as though it came from something beyond the Veil.

Bayard felt a deep sense of satisfaction as the woman's face crumpled beneath his shield, but that emotion swiftly turned into an intense, stabbing agony. He turned to see another warden at his flank, the man's eyes two burning coals as he slid a dagger between the plates of Bayard's armour. A wet warmth pulsed across Bayard's chest, and he suddenly found it hard to draw breath, even as he pushed the warden away from him.

He dimly recalled falling to the ground, his hands slipping frantically in the blood as he struggled to loosen the straps on his armour. He heard his murderer crying out as he fell victim himself, a templar crouching down by Bayard's side a moment later.

"Commander," the templar said. Her helm had slipped from her head in the confusion, but Bayard could not place her face. Her eyes fell as she scrutinised his wounds, raising Bayard's blood-stained shirt to apply a cool compress of elfroot. The dressing helped with the pain, but Bayard knew enough about injuries to realise that he was in need of more than just a poultice.

"Go," he ordered her, blood bubbling at the corner of his lips. "Sound the retreat."

The templar hesitated for only a moment before she nodded, getting to her feet. "Maker grant you peace," she offered, before she turned and ran towards the middle of the camp.

Bayard only hoped that she would reach it in time.

He slowly removed the hand that had been pressed against his wound, feeling his blood flowing more freely once the pressure was lifted. Slowly his vision began to dim, the noise of battle around him sounding more distant with each passing moment.

Bayard closed his eyes, picturing in his mind a little girl who shared his features, and he smiled.

_O Maker, hear my cry:_  
_Seat me by Your side in death_  
_Make me one within Your glory_  
_And let the world once more see Your favour_

_ For You are the fire at the heart of the world_  
_And comfort is only Yours to give._

.

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Something was very, very wrong.

Oh, Anders had harboured doubts about this from the beginning, of course. Step into a crowded siege tower, piled five stories high with angry, cramped templars, and one gleefully violent blood mage? Try to protect said mage as she did rather interesting things to make people's heads explode, whilst struggling not to get himself skewered by arrows or crushed by the men who were ostensibly on his side?

Not exactly his idea of sound strategy.

It had worked, to a point, more from sheer dumb luck than anything else. There was a small fire burning through the dampened sacking covering the tower's frame; he could have eliminated it with a carefully placed blizzard, but the thought of the templars roasting near that controlled inferno was not without its charms. If someone had only asked him nicely to remove the blaze, instead of all that fussing about with buckets and ropes, he would have simply obliged, of course.

Anders was not without his sense of duty.

No, the thing that was bothering him was how quiet it had suddenly become. He turned to the mage at his side, only to see Amell staring at something just outside his perception.

Perhaps she wasn't quite staring at something, she was listening to it. Anders heard it a moment later - a call, a symphony of commandments, a sweet seductive note that went on and on without pause, like the most arousing cry he had ever drawn from a woman's throat. _Follow me_, it bade him, and he could see, with detached interest, that Amell had already responded: templars' heads were exploding around him in a warm, metallic-smelling gush of pure, untainted blood. The healer in him protested grievously; these were their allies, after all, and as talented as Anders was, he could scarcely bring all of them back from the dead.

Then Anders was knocked back by the concussive force of a templar's smite, momentarily stunned as he felt the last of his mana being stripped from him. Amell recovered far faster than he would have thought possible, launching back into her spells with a bestial snarl. She, of course, did not need mana to cast, and the templar in front of her realised his error a moment too late as his life was sucked out of him in one drawn-out scream.

The song rose to a crescendo in Anders' mind, glorious and dark. _Kill_, it told him in no uncertain terms.

_Out of mana_, Anders responded, with a sheepish tone of apology. He was punished by an intense surge of pain, pulsing at his temples; he doubled over in momentary helplessness.

_Wait, wait, wait,_ he urged the voice inside his blood, trying to dull the frantic urge to claw a templar to death with his bare hands. He reached inside his robes, clutching desperately for his last supply of lyrium; he pulled the little bottle out in triumph, fumbling as he uncorked it. He raised the vial to his lips, preparing himself for that delightful rush of energy as it re-energised his connection to the Fade.

Then Amell's body slammed into him, and the precious bottle tumbled to the wooden slats of the tower, spilling its contents into the dirt.

"No!" Anders wailed, feeling another lance of agony assaulting his temples. Next to him, Amell shrieked as a templar stabbed her in the gut, the force bruising Anders and pressing him painfully into the back of the tower wall. The blood mage raised her eyes, defiant to the last, and then her own life force dispersed in a crimson haze, powering her last spell.

Anders barely heard the screams as the remaining templars messily imploded, coating him in viscera and greasy globules of flesh. Against him, Amell's body slumped, unbearably heavy.

With the deaths of the last templars within his line of sight, the song in his blood subsided to a dull murmur, lulled back into submission. Anders felt almost more drowsy than nauseous; no mean feat, he thought numbly as he wrested Amell's lifeless corpse off his person.

He had seen death before, of course, all kinds; he knew of blood magic and had witnessed its effects first-hand on several occasions. Still, looking down at the piles of bodies pressed tightly together, he had to admit it - he was impressed.

Five levels of templars, minus say five per cent attrition for those who had died by falling out of the tower or being crushed or accidentally stabbed by their fellows... maybe say ten per cent, to be on the safe side... that still amounted to a lot of dead bodies.

He would have to name his next cat after her, if he managed to find a female one. It would be nice for Ser Pounce-a-lot to have a friend, oh yes - Kitty Amell would be the best thing for him. Tempestuous, fiery... prone to making templars drown in their own blood...

Carefully wiping some of the gore from his face, Anders considered what to do next. Outside, the sounds of slaughter had begun anew, but now the screams were more frantic, confused. There was real fear in those voices rising from the battlefield, and worst of all, they seemed to only be coming from his side of the castle walls, which was not particularly encouraging. If nothing else, Anders was a survivor; he had not lived through almost nine years of the Circle only to be mistakenly skewered by his own allies in an Exalted March.

At least the surrounding templars were most definitely dead. Without the ability to tell friend from foe, Anders was fairly certain he would be much safer if he just stayed exactly where he was.

.

.

.

When the song reached Sylvanna, she was standing over a wounded soldier, a flask grasped firmly in her hand. Glass fragments littered the ground a moment later when the vial fell from her nerveless fingers.

The music coursed through her body, awakening the taint in her blood. She had heard this tune before, many times; it was free of corruption now, pure and loud and oh so beautiful.

It was quite simply the most beautiful sound that she had ever heard.

There was absolutely no question as to whether she would follow; she was her child's instrument, gladly surrendering her will to her young mistress. The song bade her go forth and kill; and oh how she would, every last death an offering on the altar of her absolute devotion...

She did not even notice as Lutharius stepped behind her, a spell crackling between his palms as he placed his fingers against her neck.

"_Abelas, lethallan_," he murmured, and Sylvanna felt a sharp pain at the back of her head, before she fell unwillingly into unconsciousness.

.

.

.

Guillaume was conferring with Clarisse when they both heard the song. He watched Clarisse's eyes widening, her mouth going slack as the music reached them, singing through their blood and beckoning to them with its haunting refrain.

"Maker protect us," Clarisse mumbled, as though dazed. "Maker preserve us."

The Chant of Light blazed within Guillaume, glorious and triumphant. He cast the echoes of the song to the back of his mind, where it clawed frantically at his sanity, threatening him with all kinds of suffering if he did not listen.

Guillaume hardened his heart, and closed his mind to all but the sweet words of the Chant.

_Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,_   
_I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm._   
_ I shall endure._

Not all of the other wardens appeared to be so self-possessed. He watched Clarisse tugging on Jehanne's arm in horror as the latter fired a shot into a group of templars, the arrow exploding on impact and tiny shards fracturing to find vulnerable flesh beneath the templars' hard outer coating of plate steel. Jehanne turned to her friend next, and there was a cold madness in her eyes, the same ravenous fury that Guillaume had seen in too many darkspawn faces to count.

"Please," Clarisse cried, even as she held her sword at the ready. "Please Jehanne, my friend, listen to me!"

The woman was far beyond listening, that much was clear. Guillaume did not hesitate. As Jehanne reached into her quiver for another arrow, he stepped up behind her and slipped a dagger in between her ribs. Clarisse watched on, aghast, as her friend's lifeless body slumped to the ground.

"Come," Guillaume said. "They will destroy each other. Who knows how many are left who still remain unaffected?"

Nodding, Clarisse hefted her shield on her arm and followed his lead. He wasted an idle moment wondering if it was wise to keep her at his back - even now, the song still threatened to overwhelm him, kept at bay only by the force of his will and the strength of his faith. He had thought Jehanne was strong, too, but it appeared that he had been sadly mistaken. Hopefully Clarisse would see that he had performed a necessary evil; he had certainly taken no pleasure in killing her friend.

"Where are we going?" Clarisse asked. A pair of Orlesian templars, wide-eyed with panic began to rush towards them. The wardens were forced to dispatch both of them, with no time to protest their innocence nor to reason with the men. It was a disgusting waste, Guillaume thought furiously, blood dripping off both of his blades. He offered a silent heartfelt apology to Andraste for killing two of her followers.

"Find the mages," Guillaume grunted, ducking a blow from another ensorcelled warden. Fouchier, wasn't it? He felt a pang of regret as Fouchier died on his blades, choking on his own blood as his eyes rolled back in his head. "Maybe they can stop this music, turn it off somehow-"

"There's one!" Clarisse shouted, pointing. At first Guillaume thought he was looking at an elf, the boy was so small, but then he realised that the mage was just very thin and very young. The boy was being encircled by a group of templars, his desperate voice ringing out over the top of them.

"Brothers, please! Can't you see that I am not under any kind of spell, that I am no abomination? It's the wardens!" the mage shouted, his face suddenly livid with fury as he spotted Clarisse and Guillaume. "They're they ones doing this! Their tainted blood has made them pawns of the false god!"

"We're not enthralled, we swear!" Clarisse shouted, though in her haste she had forgotten to switch to Fereldan. Guillaume could have told her to save her breath; in the chaos, the templars would never listen to reason, adopting the admittedly safer policy of killing anyone who was caught in their way. Then there was no more time to think - Guillaume grunted in pain as an arcing bolt of lightning found him, shooting down his arms and almost forcing him to drop the weapons from his numbed hands. Apparently that gamble did not work out so well for the mage; he heard the boy's wretched cry as the templars turned on him, too eager to stamp out any signs of magic, even when it came from their own side. Still more of the templars rushed forwards to deal with Clarisse and himself; he recovered his stance, still twitching from the lightning, and caught her eyes over the confusion.

"Fall back!" Guillaume ordered, as he tried to knee a templar in the groin. Not exactly his smartest move... he soon learnt that those long bases hid another layer of armour, and Guillaume winced as he imagined the bruising he had just managed to give himself. Far in the distance, he heard a horn sounding the signal for retreat; it made the templar in front of him pause long enough for Guillaume to separate his head from his body.

He spat blood from his mouth, trying to ignore the metallic taste on his tongue, and then he finally took a moment to cast his eyes over to Clarisse.

The sight of her stopped him dead in his tracks.

Her hair had come loose from its braid, falling over her cheeks as she lay face down in the dirt. One hand was still clenched tightly around her sword, but her shield had fallen by the wayside some paces away.

Standing over her was another templar, the man's lowered helm obscuring his face. His heavily armoured foot struck out, catching Clarisse in the hip; her body rolled over, sightless eyes permanently opened and staring up at the sky.

The templar raised his sword, staring down at the body before him, and then he stabbed Clarisse in the chest. Dark blood began to ooze up around his blade, and he withdrew it with a sharp twist.

Guillaume felt his sight dimming for a moment, and then a surge of anger overtook him until he could scarcely breathe. Clarisse had been a competent warden, a reliable second, and even a good confidante, despite her appalling taste in men. Guillaume had been entertaining vague hopes that together they would find the other wardens, free them from their enthrallment, and then cease this mad slaughter. He had almost convinced himself that it was even possible, that somehow he could fix this sorry mess, before he became responsible for losing an entire command.

With Clarisse's death, those hopes evaporated forever.

He was vaguely aware of the pressure of his hands tightening around the hilts of his blades, his movements controlled as he approached the templar's flank. The helm covering the man's face made his passage all but invisible; in a few short strides he was at the templar's back. A careful assessment of the weak spots in his plate armour, a few vicious thrusts and Clarisse's murderer collapsed on top of her body.

Guillaume chose not to waste a prayer for the dead templar.

A small noise from his left and another at his back made him pivot to face these new threats; his blades arced in a whirl of silver light, droplets of blood flying off the edges as they sought to bury themselves in a new victim. He scarcely registered a wound opening up on his shoulder, the curve of a templar's shield striking a glancing blow against his arm. He shook the numbness out of his muscles, his daggers almost acting as extensions of his limbs until another pair of bodies tumbled to the ground.

He willed his breathing to slow, visualising the air entering his body as pure light, drawing out the anger and corruption in his soul. An outstretched hand lying near his foot twitched slightly; he frowned and kicked the helmet off its owner's head. Startled eyes stared up at him, pleading; it took only a moment for him to bend down and slit the templar's throat.

He turned to look towards where they had last seen the mage, but there were only armoured bodies, gleaming in their metal coffins. Guillaume thought perhaps he could see the edge of an embroidered robe peeking out from underneath all of that steel plate. The boy must have been dead, or was soon to be.

He felt as though he had been cast adrift, a commander with no command. He swallowed uncomfortably, kneeling down beside Clarisse's body. Removing his glove, he closed her eyes gently with his thumb.

"Rest at the Maker's right hand, my friend, and be forgiven." He cast around blindly, finally grabbing a cloak peeking out from a satchel that had been abandoned in the chaos. He wrapped the fabric over Clarisse's face and body, silently mouthing an apology for not being able to see her properly cremated.

Guillaume rose to his feet. The sounds of combat still echoed around him, but they sounded fainter now. The song itself had subsided greatly, causing only a dull throbbing at the back of his brain rather than the urgent, intense agony that it had produced before. He imagined that its creator was sated, engorged with all the lives that she had taken. He fervently wished that she would choke on them.

The templars had a rendezvous location at the north-west point of the lake; if any of the wardens were still alive, they would be heading in the opposite direction. Or so Guillaume hoped.

He glanced up into the sky, gaining his bearings. The sun was only a faint yellow glow obscured by clouds, sinking halfway down into the horizon. Once he had discerned where south was, he began to run.

He passed many bodies along his path, both Orlesian and Fereldan, templar and warden. He even saw two sisters in Chantry robes, leaning against each other as though they had each fallen asleep. One of the corpses was turned up to the sky, and Guillaume could see that her face had been mutilated, the eyes plucked out and her nose and lips sawn off, revealing white cartilage and bloodied flesh. He gagged, turning away, and shivered despite the weight of his armour pressing down upon him, warmed by the violent flight and the sticky summer heat that filled the air. He had passed the worst of it, he thought, leaving the bulk of the templars behind.

A groan broke the relative peace, and he immediately tensed, approaching the sound cautiously. It was Renouart, Guillaume saw, one of the five mages he had taken with him from Orlais. He breathed a thanks to the Maker for finding the man alive, before he glanced down to see half of Renouart's intestines hanging out from his body. Surely that was fixable, his mind reasoned desperately; he had seen men survive worse with the aid of magical healing...

The mage raised his eyes, and Guillaume was disturbed to see the tainted madness lurking in their depths. "_Commandant_," Renouart groaned, beckoning him to lean down.

Against his better judgement, Guillaume found himself doing just that. The mage's breath rattled in his throat, words slipping past his lips in a near-inaudible tangle.

"I die in Her name," Renouart wheezed. "May my sacrifice feed Her everlasting glory."

The mage's head lolled back against the ground, lips curved into a disturbing smile, eyes staring up into the trees. To Guillaume's intense discomfort, the body simply vanished, crumbling into fine particles of red sand. A breeze rose up, brushing the dust away and leaving only the blood-stained robes behind as evidence that Guillaume was not losing his mind.

Guillaume shook his head and stood there for a while, silent. His thoughts and prayers were interrupted only by a raucous murder of crows, flocking to feast upon the newly dead.

.

.

.

Morrigan's daughter lowered the flute from her lips, and the sudden absence of music was startling. The halo of light surrounding the Child God had all but vanished, leaving only a few stray golden motes drifting in the air like slowly falling stars.

The siege tower had long since ceased to betray any signs of life. Morrigan had felt a tremor within the Fade as the men inside it had died, but now the entire construct was eerily devoid of movement, suggesting that the blood mage had also perished during the process. She was not terribly concerned, in any case - one little mageling was hardly going to give her pause.

Tree cover over the main templar encampment had obscured their view of the chaos on the field below, but the fact that her child had already ceased the song suggested that Ishantha was more than satisfied with the results. Morrigan could only imagine the anarchy that must have occurred, but the thought gave her less pleasure than she would have anticipated.

There was something mildly unsettling about the gleeful manner in which her daughter tucked the flute away in her tunic, smiling, as though she had not just engineered the deaths of several hundred men and women. Morrigan supposed that a degree of pride was not unwarranted... indeed, it should be encouraged, considering how many lives had been preserved within the castle itself.

A flash of light lit up the prematurely darkened sky, some miles away; it was followed shortly by a loud burst of thunder. Heavy, warm droplets began to fall, and Ishantha squealed with delight, sticking out her tongue to catch the rain upon it.

Morrigan sighed, carefully smoothing her dampened hair back from her face, feeling the water leaving wet rivulets down her cheeks.

"I think that went well," Ishantha said, taking her mother's hand. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"'Twould appear that you are victorious," Morrigan said, cautiously approving. She found herself unwillingly drawn into a hug, and her daughter's smile, like the arcs of lightning that rent the sky, was as radiant as only divinity could be.

.

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**END OF PART I**

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Phew. I never thought we'd get to see the end of that :-)
> 
> With many thanks, once again, to my ever-awesome and extremely patient beta, oneplusme; to juri for her advice, support and cheer leading; and to sqbr for helping with my plot and characterisations and for pushing me to fill in some of the gaps. I am truly grateful to all of you. Thank you for putting up with my flailing, my increasingly grim plans for my hapless cast of characters, my worrying addiction to angst and the list of chapters that seems to keep getting longer and longer every time I look at it.
> 
> Thank you to all of you for reading and adding this to faves and alerts. I think one of the most exciting aspects of fanfic is how dynamic the reader/writer relationship can be, and how readers can actively shape stories as they are being created. This story has definitely been influenced by your comments and reactions, and my writing and the narrative have both been improved by the process, for which I'm really grateful.
> 
> Thank you: AssassinsLover, Auroraas, Avarenda, AvengerMouse, BleachAddict24-7, Eden, Elizabeth Carter, hetekos, interesting2125, Inverness, J. E. Talveran, juri, KyaniteD, Lightning Strikes Twice, Liisa Vatanen, Lvl2DragonTamer, Metroidvania, Misdirection, Mm-Burnt-Toast-mM, Morgaine Dax, mutive, Nightwish11606, Noah Sila, oneplusme, Ondjage, Snafu1000, Spikesagitta, sqbr, Tadwin, thatgirlwiththe, Tolk600, Victorita9, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision. You guys make my day :-)
> 
> I'm going to take a break for a month or two because tbh, I know how the next part is going to play out, but some of the details are still eluding me and/or filling me with dread (intense, paralytic dread). In the mean time, I'll be updating the Fables and also eventually posting a oneshot for the current Seven Deadly Sins round.
> 
> This would be a good time for you to let me know what you do/don't like so far (particularly the latter): anything confusing, illogical, poorly structured, annoying grammatical habits, et cetera? Anything you want to see more/less of? I would love to know about it. (I can't always promise that I'll have the talent/time to fix everything, but I will try :-)
> 
> Given some of the non-canon decisions and multiple POVs, is it hard to remember what's gone on before? Would a summary of the last thing X character did at the start of every chapter be helpful? (I know after reading several different serial fics at once, I personally find it hard to keep everyone else's canon straight :-p) Thanks guys in advance, you're awesome!


	21. Part II: Honour Before Reason

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: BioWare owns Dragon Age. I'm endlessly grateful to the company for encouraging and supporting community creations.
> 
> I'm sure you guys know the drill by now, but a reminder: this story contains (or will contain) frequent violence, mature themes, sexual references, horror, gore, possible dubious consent, death and other nasty things. Sometimes all at once.
> 
> I'm going to start using brief recaps to give context, focusing on the events/characters featured in the current chapter. Let me know if they're too uninformative to be useful.
> 
> It should go without saying, but just because a character offers an opinion, it doesn't mean that I personally share it.
> 
> With many thanks to my wonderful beta, oneplusme, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - Morrigan, Ishantha, Sylvanna - chapter 20 **

[Redcliffe siege]

Sylvanna: You're plotting something. This disturbs me.

Morrigan: As well it might, considering how ineptly you anticipated my previous plans. Remind me again why I am enamoured of you?

Sylvanna: Authorial fiat?

Morrigan: Ah. That explains many a thing.

[Later...]

Ishantha: *bathes in the red corpse dust of a young Dalish hunter*

Sylvanna: Somehow, I'm okay with this.

Ishantha: Good. Since if you weren't, I'd have to kill you. Joking! HA!

Morrigan: *watches her daughter summon the song of an Old God*

Sylvanna: Ooh, pretty!

Lutharius: *knocks Sylvanna unconscious*

Bayard: *dies*

Amell: *dies*

Jehanne: *dies*

Clarisse: *dies*

Thin young mage: Hey, wardens! The templars are totally going to get you!

Templars: Perhaps, but we're also going to get you too, n00b.

Thin young mage: Wah! *gurgle*

Assorted templars and wardens: *die*

Rain: *is wet*

Ishantha: Woo! Go me.

Morrigan: Perhaps preserving the soul of an Old God wasn't precisely the best idea I ever had...

Ishantha: Too late now! LOLOLOL PWNED.

Morrigan: *sighs*

* * *

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**PART II**

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**Redcliffe**

The rain continued all afternoon and long into the night, until the people of Redcliffe finally woke to a clear, sunny morning, marred only by the twin odours of fish and charred corpses. Morrigan's boots sank into the damp soil with a wet squelch as she followed the sound of her daughter's incessant humming. Beside her, Sylvanna halted for a moment to gather a handful of small flowers.

"This is not a picnic," Morrigan remarked. Looking on ahead, she saw Ishantha pausing, giving them a chance to catch up.

Sylvanna brought the blossoms to her nose, breathing in deeply. Her shoulders tensed, then relaxed as she exhaled, her eyes closed. "They smell like the Chant."

Morrigan stiffened in alarm, her eyes darting over to her daughter. Fortunately, Ishantha seemed too preoccupied with relieving a templar's corpse of its valuables to overhear Sylvanna's blasphemy. "Don't be a fool. Words do not have a scent."

Sylvanna aimlessly picked at the remaining blooms in her hands, strewing white petals in their wake. "I thought you would be happier."

Morrigan sneered. "Happy to be surrounded by the pervasive stench of rotting or burning flesh? Clearly, I could not possibly be happier."

Sylvanna glanced away, her fingers restless for want of something to toy with. "But she is triumphant. Doesn't that please you?"

It should. It did, truly. But this was not the end of it, by any means, and it benefitted no one to misjudge the sum of work yet to come.

Sylvanna looked up at her, still waiting for an answer.

"Of course," Morrigan said. "We gained much with this victory. It exceeded expectations," she added, in a softer tone.

It had been a strange evening, really. Morrigan had stayed on at the castle, not daring to let her daughter out of her sight as the Redcliffe militia began the arduous task of routing any stray troops that remained within range. With nightfall, a celebratory mood had come across the defenders, and Ser Tomas had allowed several dozen barrels of ale to be tapped, not to mention numerous casks of wine. There were few sights that Morrigan loathed more than the vision of inebriated revellers en masse; she had escaped from the tedious spectacle by taking the form of an owl. On silent wings, she had surveyed the land, finding the area disturbingly devoid of life.

Here, surrounded by the forests of Redcliffe, a few injured wardens and templars remained, though not for long. Morrigan expected that the remnants of the divine's forces had taken themselves to the Orlesian border, seeking refuge from Ishantha's followers. They were welcome to run. As she saw it, their deaths were only a matter of time.

Sylvanna watched her, a guarded look in her eyes. The scent of crushed petals surrounded her, bringing back memories of a bard with bright red hair and a deceptively sharp tongue.

"Let us not dither," Morrigan said, brushing past. She hastened her steps, catching up to her daughter with a few quick strides. The Child God leant over an injured soldier, kneeling down to hear his dying words.

"There is... no Maker?" the man gasped. His armour was emblazoned with two griffins rampant, the insignia partly obscured by blood.

"Not any more," Ishantha smiled. Her hands gently stroked the man's forehead, and he wheezed under her touch.

"Then... the Chantry... the Chant of Light..."

"Lies."

The man sighed, his eyes turning skyward. "Where am I going, then?"

"Home," Ishantha said. Placing her hands on his jaw, she snapped his neck with a sudden crack. Her fingers remained upon his body for a moment more, until the warden's corpse slowly dissolved into red dust.

"Is that the last one?" Morrigan asked.

Her daughter and Sylvanna both nodded.

Morrigan sighed. It seemed like such an appalling waste, really: killing the rest of the wardens when they could have made such a useful (and biddable) fighting force. Not one of them was immune to the song of an Old God; over time, even the few devout Andrastians they had encountered might have been converted. But Ishantha was adamant.

"Were these men and women not kin to you?" Morrigan asked Sylvanna quietly, as her daughter brushed motes of dust from her palms.

Sylvanna paused. "By virtue of our blood, perhaps?" She shook her head, glancing at the traces left behind by the dead warden. "Feeding the soul of an Old God is not such a terrible way to die," she murmured, her voice devoid of emotion.

Turning aside, Sylvanna walked on ahead, ducking under an overhanging branch. Raindrops still clinging to the leaves shimmered and fell as she went past, the foliage closing in after her passage until the trees obscured her from view.

Ishantha crept closer to her mother. "The grey wardens pose far too great a risk to leave alive," she explained. "They are tainted. They could lead the darkspawn towards us."

"Sylvanna is a grey warden."

Ishantha hesitated for only a second. "She is but one person," she said dismissively, though Morrigan suspected that she could detect a hint of uncertainty in her voice. Any retort she might have formed, however, was interrupted by a flare of blue light piercing through the forest's leaves.

Morrigan and Ishantha reached Sylvanna's side a moment later. A translucent shield surrounded Sylvanna, her hands raised to shape another spell. Frowning, Morrigan dropped her gaze to the subject of Sylvanna's attention.

A young man lay on the ground, unfortunate enough to still be alive. His entire torso was caked in blood, his robes sodden with it. His face was streaked with mud and even more blood, a sickly pallor evident beneath the dirt. As Morrigan looked closer, it became apparent why the boy had not run - his right arm had been severed above the elbow, the stump swaddled tightly in the crumpled up sleeve of his robe.

"Get away from me," the boy spat, his face twisting into a snarl. "Unholy hags."

"Such poor manners," Morrigan observed. "Hardly prudent when we hags are all that stand between you and a most painful death."

"Allow me to help you," Sylvanna said, dropping to her knees. Her hands stretched out towards the boy's arm.

"Don't touch me!"

It was too late. Morrigan saw Sylvanna's magic working on the boy's injuries, the flush of colour returning to his pale face. He flinched under her ministrations, his eyes darting wildly as though searching for an escape.

"Mama, that's such a waste," Ishantha chided. "We should put him out of his misery."

"Do what you will," the boy sneered. His fear was evident beneath his show of bravado, though Morrigan could not help but admire his courage in the face of defeat.

"Wait." Sylvanna straightened. Her eyes roamed over the corpses surrounding the boy; all of them were templars, their armour charred and split, the ground around them blackened by a magical fire that had long since been extinguished. "You're a mage. But not a warden."

The boy coughed, and spat at their feet, a trace of blood visible in the phlegm. "So?"

"Is First Enchanter Irving aiding the divine?" Sylvanna asked. "The Circle of Magi is supposed to be neutral-"

"Irving is sitting on his arse, doing nothing," the boy snarled. "Only the faithful - only the pure of heart were sent here. Much good it did," he muttered, under his breath.

"It's true. I can't feel anything from him," Ishantha said, with a note of dismay. Each Andrastian she had encountered left her in a bad mood, Morrigan had discovered.

"Oh, Alistair," Sylvanna sighed. "I suppose you did one good thing after all." She pinched the bridge of her nose, looking tired. Her conversation with the king in the Fade had gone badly, as Morrigan had expected; still, it was pointless to remind Sylvanna of her past attachments.

"You have your information. Let us kill him and be done with it," Morrigan said.

Sylvanna ignored her, as she so often did. "What's your name?"

"Mama, let's just kill him-"

"You don't remember me?" The boy began to laugh, a thin, reedy sound, fuelled by exhaustion and despair. "I remember you very well, Grey Warden. Very well indeed."

"I'm sorry, I don't-" The blood drained from Sylvanna's face. "Connor?" she asked, in a whisper.

In that moment, Morrigan knew she would be facing an uphill battle to see this wretched boy dead. "It makes no difference who he is-"

"The arl's nephew," Ishantha surmised, her lips turning up in a smile. "Connor Guerrin. What a happy coincidence."

Connor shrugged, seeming resigned to his fate. Morrigan had seen that look before, many times, but still she did not lower her guard - even cornered, an injured rat could fight to the death.

Sylvanna turned to them both, eyes pleading. "Can't we just... lock him up?"

Morrigan scoffed. "And wake to find ourselves burning in our beds? He is too dangerous. You know as well as I what mages are capable of."

Sylvanna's face softened. Morrigan did not doubt that she was reliving her time at Redcliffe, revisiting her journey through the Fade, battling a demon for the child's life. Far better if they had simply killed him from the start, as Morrigan had suggested.

"He's just a little boy..."

"You were not much older than he, when you first came to Ostagar."

Morrigan regretted her words as soon as they left her lips. From Sylvanna's horrified expression, that was probably the worst possible thing she could have said.

The boy groaned, sitting up. Lightning arced between Morrigan's fingers as she eyed him, daring him to make a sudden move.

"I am not afraid," Connor said.

"Are you asking me to release him, Mama?" Ishantha asked.

Sylvanna watched the boy for a moment, her expression troubled, before shaking her head. "He would have killed you. It is your choice as to what you wish to do with him. But consider what threat he could possibly pose to you. Isn't it better that he returns, as a voice to herald your victory to others?"

Ishantha turned to her mother, golden eyes clouded with doubt.

"Clearly, the most sensible course of action would be to put this young man out of his misery," Morrigan reasoned. "Threat or no, his very existence defies you. 'Tis... kinder... to let him join his fellows in death." After all, what kind of mage could he possibly be, with the use of only one hand? Surely the more complex spells would be unmanageable for him now.

Her daughter sighed, her lips pursed. Morrigan braced herself for the blast of power that never came.

"Go, then," Ishantha said. "We will not stop you."

The boy's mouth gaped open in disbelief, his expression surely mirroring Morrigan's own.

"Daughter, are you certain you wish to pursue this course of action? Consider the risks. Why save this one life when there is nothing to be gained from it?"

"No. I already said it," Ishantha scowled. "I spoke the words." She made a shooing action, as though dismissing a fly. "Go on, then."

Connor did not need further encouragement. He climbed to his feet, rocking unsteadily for a moment. His gaze flicked between the three mages, his eyes unreadable. With his stump cradled tightly against his chest, he turned and ran.

Morrigan watched him go, calculating the perfect angle for a fireball to strike him in the back.

"Thank you," Sylvanna said. "That was generous of you."

Morrigan pursed her lips, not daring to speak until the boy was out of range.

"Was that the right thing to do?" Ishantha asked.

No. Of course it was not; any fool could see it. Even a child well out of her swaddling should have been able to see that. "Only time will tell," Morrigan said, her voice laced with disapproval.

Ishantha sighed. In the next moment, she seemed to forget the entire incident, skipping happily towards the templars' corpses, entirely committed to her search for hidden treasures.

Morrigan raised her eyes to the sky, and sought temperance in the shifting clouds.

.

.

.

Ishantha was happy. No, more importantly than that - she was sated.

She threw open the windows to her room, letting the breeze stir the tapestries on the walls. Even the smell of death pleased her. It would rain again tonight, she thought, maintaining a delightfully sticky cover of mud over the ground. Perhaps she would transform herself into a pup to play in it, and avoid a lecture from Sylvanna about ruining her clothes.

They had found many lovely, shiny things amongst the corpses. Who would have guessed that templars carried such pretties? She admired the sparkle of gold chain running over her fingers, and the glimmer of jewels nestled atop her apron. Of course, Sylvanna did have to spoil things a little by claiming that most of the gold and salvageable armour would have to go into rebuilding Redcliffe village, which had been sacked by the invading forces. Still, what she did not know would not distress her...

Like the fate of that little boy. Ishantha had contacted First Enchanter Irving through the Fade, waking the old man from his afternoon nap. The mage was nearing the end of his usefulness, unfortunately, but she had not yet identified a suitable replacement.

She had asked Irving to make sure that Connor was found and taken care of. No point in having loose ends running around, and it wasn't as if she was ordering his execution, at any rate. Irving would surely find a nice, clean dungeon for the boy in which to spend the rest of his days.

Connor's fate was of little importance in the scheme of things. She would add to her armies over the coming months, Ishantha decided. The Dalish who travelled with her were few in number - even fewer now, after the siege. There was also the slightly vexing matter of South Reach - the arling had sent no soldiers to her, even though they must have been aware of the situation in Redcliffe. It was irritating, but perhaps the quickest solution was to visit South Reach in the flesh.

All in all, by the time she saw her father, Ishantha intended to have the country on its knees.

The bastard princeling turned king had dreamt of her again. And why shouldn't he? Far better to dream of his successful and powerful daughter than to moon over whichever of his dead wives made him feel the most guilty on any particular day, or to fantasise grossly about cheese and fighting and other raw, base needs.

Humans were strange, strange creatures.

She carefully arranged her jewels and chains on the bedspread, turning them to catch the light. The sun cast rainbow colours on the walls, lovely points of reds and blues and greens. She was still making shapes with the lengths of chain when she felt the approaching presence of the taint.

Like a guilty child, she quickly tucked her stash under a blanket, and then proceeded to sit on it. Her face was arranged in a dutiful smile when Sylvanna slid through the open door.

"Mama, isn't it wonderful-"

Her words trailed off. Sylvanna was dressed in enchanted travelling robes, her staff held in one hand, a satchel over her shoulder. It was wrong. This was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.

"What are you doing?" Ishantha fought to keep herself from frowning. Unpleasant facial expressions bred wrinkles, even though she was fairly sure that she could prevent this body from degrading for as long as she cared to. It was all so confusing. Dragons seldom wrinkled.

"I've come to say goodbye," Sylvanna smiled. A timid, fragile thing, that smile. The dread in Ishantha's heart grew dark and heavy.

"What?"

"The castle is safe for now," Sylvanna explained, drawing closer. Ishantha stared at her, completely perplexed. "The divine's forces will not recover from this in a hurry. And so I thought-"

There was the contradiction. She thought.

"-I thought this was the perfect time to find Valena."

Ishantha breathed out, relieved at the triviality of the problem. If she had known that wretched girl would cause so much trouble, she would have killed Valena long before the darkspawn came to steal her away. "Mama, I need you here," she whined, allowing just a shimmer of tears to show in her eyes. "I can't risk your life. You might be hurt-"

"I am going, Ishantha."

That was not the voice of a thrall. Ishantha's mind sifted through the events of the past day, indexing encounters, orders, conversations. There was nothing that should have sparked this flash of independence. She had eaten Varin, and then met Morrigan, and used the flute, and then-

And then the wardens had risen to Her song, and it had been glorious, and then-

_Sylvanna is a grey warden,_ her mother's voice echoed.

She must have heard the song. Mustn't she? Yet she had not answered - there would have been no templars, no heretics within range for her to kill. Morrigan must have done something to her.

Damn her.

"I... hope to see you back here soon, but if not-"

"Mama, stop. You're scaring me." Ishantha ran up to her, burying her face in Sylvanna's robes as she wrapped her arms around her waist. "Don't go. I don't want you to go."

Sylvanna held her hands away, not embracing her as she normally would. "I need to do this. Please, release me."

"Mama, you promised me. You promised! I need you-"

Sylvanna firmly disentangled her grasp, holding her at arm's length. Ishantha poured on the tears, feeling their warmth streaking her face; she even allowed her eyes to redden, her lips pouting in an exaggerated bow.

"You have your mother."

That was entirely unacceptable. She would not listen to this - she would not.

"You're my mother, too," she tried again, allowing a tiny bit of despair to colour her voice. "I need you here-"

Sylvanna's lips brushed her forehead, and she felt the taint coursing through Sylvanna's veins, so close to her. It would be so easy to draw on it, to gather the blood between her hands and to let it all out in one glorious rush of warmth and guttering breath, but then that would ruin her years and years of hard work and it wasn't fair and she had waited too long for this and-

_NO_.

Sylvanna gasped, falling to her knees. Her staff clattered against the floor.

Speed was of the essence. She wrapped her thoughts around Sylvanna's mind, planting suggestions and commands, seeking out memories of the blacksmith's daughter and making them pure and sweet, dull and untouched and clean. Nothing to disturb her. Nothing to disturb them, their sacred circle that she had built from nothing, that was hers and hers alone.

_RISE_.

Twin trails of blood trickled from Sylvanna's ears as she slowly came to her feet, the staff still lying untouched. Ishantha would have to remember to get a servant to tuck it away somewhere safe, she thought. Sylvanna's eyes stared straight in front of her, above Ishantha's head.

_SLEEP_.

Sylvanna turned, her hands trembling slightly as she reached out for support, her fingertips brushing the door frame as she took one step and then another until she was out of the room. Ishantha heard her feet echoing with a slow, comforting regularity, until the sound trailed away into the indistinguishable hubbub of the castle.

She breathed out, willing her heart to slow to normal. Carefully, she wiped the tears from her face, dabbing at the corners of her eyes.

That had been close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, Spikesagitta, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision. It's nice to be back! :D


	22. Into the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my wonderful beta, oneplusme, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> Thanks also for your comments, everyone - I admit I'm having fun with the recaps, so they'll be here to stay.

** Recap - Anders, Guillaume, Connor - chapters 20-21 **

[Redcliffe siege and aftermath]

Anders: Wow, this music is ominously sinister. Hey Amell, can you hear-

Amell: *slaughters scores of templars*

Anders: ...I'll just take that as a 'yes'.

Amell and remaining templars: *die, whilst splattering Anders with blood*

Anders: And there goes my laundry budget for the rest of this fic.

[Meanwhile...]

Jehanne: *dies*

Clarisse: When we stop running from murderous templars, I am so going to chew you out for screwing this up royally, _Commandant_.

Guillaume: I look forward to it-

Clarisse: *dies*

Guillaume: *angsts*

[One chapter later]

Sylvanna: OMG it's one-armed Connor!

Connor: Yo, bitches. You suck.

Morrigan: We should kill him.

Ishantha: Yeah, I should kill him.

Sylvanna: OMG DON'T KILL HIM HE'S JUST A BABY!

Morrigan: *facepalm*

Ishantha: Okay, fine. Hey kid, it's your lucky day!

Connor: *runs*

*Morrigan disapproves -10*

Ishantha: Don't worry, I'll have Irving take care of him.

Sylvanna: What?

Ishantha: Did I just say that out loud? ...Ooh! Look over there! It's the next chapter!

* * *

.

.

.

**Redcliffe**

Rain drummed down on Anders' head, rinsing the blood from his hair and his robes as he crawled out of the siege tower. His pockets jingled with the merry sound of coin and other small valuables, appropriated from the bodies of the templars he had left behind. He even held in his pouch a lovely, garnet-studded golden torc, courtesy of Amell. It was a shame to let it go to waste, after all, and the blood mage would not have minded. Probably. They had been practically family by virtue of their shared taint, and family members always helped each other out in a crisis, even from beyond the grave.

He was around fifteen sovereigns richer, and at least that again in chains and rings. He wished he had brought a pack mule, to take the breastplates and weapons that the templars had been carrying, but it could not be helped.

He stumbled into the open. The rain fell in a heavy curtain, creating slick puddles, but he was grateful for its obscuring presence, and for the enfolding dark of the night.

It had been creepy, waiting out the last of the daylight in an abandoned siege tower filled only with crumpled corpses and stinking pools of blood. He had recognised some of the templars from the Circle and from assorted Chantries scattered across Ferelden. Some of their faces were indistinguishable, the blood vessels damaged beyond repair beneath their skin, but others...

Anders shook his head, to clear it. The wait had been of some use, at least - his mana had replenished to the point where he no longer felt as weak and defenceless as a day-old kitten.

Sounds of revelry drifted up over the castle walls, along with the smell of roasting meat. Anders' mouth watered, and his stomach let out an unfortunately loud gurgle as he wrapped an arm over it, trying to stifle the noise.

Acting swiftly, he dragged a rope and grappling hook to the edge of the causeway. He had liberated the equipment from the siege tower; designed to help besiegers clamber over castle walls, it would do nicely as a makeshift rappelling line.

He peered over the stone ledge. The waters of Lake Calenhad were visible only as a vague blackness, punctuated by pricks of movement as the rain continued to fall, breaking the water's surface. At least Anders was getting a shower out of this. He sorely needed one; everything he touched was left tinged faintly pink with the traces of other people's blood. Anders was not fastidious by any means, but this was a bit much, even for him.

He secured the hook as best he could against the ancient masonry of the Redcliffe causeway. The castle predated even the Avvar, according to history; Anders wondered if he was supposed to be grateful for its solid track record or worried that the stone was old enough to give way beneath his footing. Giving the rope a swift tug, he proceeded to wrap the end around his waist, securing it with a series of knots. He was maybe - what - fifty yards above the water? Probably more? Best not to think about it.

Straddling the rope, Anders picked up a length close to the hook, testing its grip until the line held taut between his gloved hands. Gently, he allowed his body to lean backwards, until he was braced against the stonework, parallel to the surface of the water.

_Easy, easy_, he cautioned himself. _Slowly does it..._

He inched his feet down, his hands following suit as he allowed the rope to play out. This really wasn't so bad, he reassured himself. At least it was still summer, and the winds at Redcliffe weren't nearly as strong as the ones buffeting Kinloch Hold.

As he continued to rappel downwards, a particularly loud clap of thunder made him flinch. His foot slipped against the wet stone and lost contact with the causeway, the surcease of pressure placing all his weight fully upon the taut line. His gloved hands slipped for a terrifying moment before he regained his grip, and he swung freely like a pendulum, the wind streaming through his hair as he clung to the rope for dear life.

An ominous creak made him look up. The gesture was all but pointless, as he was met largely with the view of rain falling through the night sky. Still, Anders was not terribly surprised when a moment later, the grappling hook worked its way free of the ancient stone work, its steel prongs scraping noisily over the side of the causeway and plunging him into free-fall.

He wondered, belatedly, if he was one of the few mages who had ever been competent or unlucky enough to cast whilst in midair; the lifeward settled onto his skin a moment later, and then he hit the water with all the force and grace of a charging bronto.

.

.

.

Anders was cold and hungry and his body felt like one very large and painful bruise.

Washing up along the shores of Redcliffe Village had probably been a blessing, all things considered. The place was deserted, the houses gutted by fire. The smell of charred wood had been dampened by the rain, and Anders crawled gratefully into one of the shacks close to the water, which still retained two of its four walls and even a small section of its roof.

He collapsed into an undignified heap, waiting for a regeneration spell to take away the edge of his headache. His limbs burned with fatigue, his throat and nose were raw from swallowing too much water and his eyes stung, but by golly, was he alive.

For now.

Squeezing out some of the water from his sodden robes, he reached into a pocket for a small bundle wrapped in oilskin. His own rations had remained free of blood, but most of the supplies carried by the templars in the siege tower had been ruined by spellfire or gore. Anders might have been a desperate man, but he was not quite desperate enough to resort to borderline cannibalism.

The last of his healing magic ebbed from him, leaving behind most of his headache. Anders pinched the bridge of his nose before wolfing down the contents of the oilskin, almost choking before he forced himself to relax, chew, and swallow.

Feeling somewhat better, he wandered through the remnants of the house. What used to be the kitchen and main living area was now just a charred wreck, but at the back of the house he managed to find a change of breeches that seemed mostly clean, though wet, like everything else. Anders shrugged off his robes and wrestled his way into them, wringing out his spare clothes and rolling them into a tight bundle.

At the water's edge, he found a pair of boats, still moored to the pier; one had been ruined, bobbing upturned upon the lake with a large hole carved into its centre, but the other seemed sound enough, even retaining a pair of oars strapped to its hull. He placed one foot in it, experimentally, and then the other. It bobbed nauseatingly until he sat down, balancing out his weight, but it seemed to hold tight.

He slipped its rope from its moorings, picking up the oars with a sigh, and began to row himself to safety.

.

.

.

**Lake Calenhad**

Waiting for him on the eastern side of the lake was trouble.

Actually, it was only Guillaume, but the two were probably indistinguishable.

It was almost sunrise when Anders pulled into a near-deserted shore, the faint blush of light agreeable to his weary eyes. That was probably why he didn't notice the warden-commander until he was almost upon him, he decided later on.

"Oh," the Orlesian said flatly. "It's you."

Anders tensed. "Who were you expecting, the marvellous Mistress Mitzie and her band of Antivan dancing girls?"

Guillaume looked at him blankly for a moment and then began to laugh, a tired, croaking sound. Anders almost regretted his words.

The warden-commander was still fully dressed in armour, mostly washed clean by the rain. He had a jagged, ugly gash at the top of his head, and he carried himself stiffly, favouring his right arm. Anders could cast a basic healing spell in his sleep, and the words were at his lips before he even thought of them. He saw Guillaume stiffen in alarm, and then relax as the spell enfolded him.

"Thank you," the Orlesian said cautiously.

Anders tried to squeeze the remaining water out of his shirt, without much luck. At least it had stopped raining.

"Where are the others?" Guillaume asked. "Amell and the templars-"

"Dead. And the wardens? Clarisse and Jehanne?"

"Dead."

Anders had expected as much, but the confirmation still stung. He briefly mourned the passing of possibility, the extinguishing of what could have been, and then let it go.

Of all the people he could have ended up with, he thought wearily, it had to be him. Then again, at least Guillaume could actually understand and communicate in the king's tongue, which had to be a plus.

"Do you mean to tell me that your entire order was slaughtered?" Anders asked. "If we survived, there must be more."

"I would not be so certain," Guillaume said cautiously. He looked down at Anders' boat, mired in the soil, and prodded it with the toe of his boot. "You came across in that little thing?"

"No, I grew wings and flew. What do you mean, all of them are dead? That can't be right. Are you sure-"

"I saw them." Guillaume shrugged, and briefly looked away. "On the field, with the templars. I watched..." his voice trailed off for a moment, and he sighed, shaking his head. "We need assistance. We need to learn what can be done against her, against the lure she emits to wardens and how to break the enthrallment she used against the army at Redcliffe."

"We need to go to Gwaren," Anders said, "and I need to find my cat."

Guillaume's eyes flashed annoyance at him. "That would be unwise. Who knows what hold she has on the other wardens?" His face twisted into a scowl, and he peered more intently at Anders. "Exactly how did you escape?"

Anders bristled. "I swam, if you must know. Hence the state of my clothes."

"No, no," Guillaume shook his head. "How did you escape her Song? Few of my brethren were spared, and all those who resisted were Andrastians."

"I'm just lucky. It's a well-known fact."

Guillaume looked at him doubtfully, and then sighed. The sun was now well and truly in the sky, reminding Anders that he had not eaten since his meagre meal at the foot of Redcliffe village.

"We should go to the Circle Tower," Guillaume said. "Your mages must have research at hand that would help us, correct? Surely they can construct something of use-"

"What? No! Are you insane?" Anders gesticulated forcefully, watching the commander flinch. "We need to tell the other wardens, and get them to help. The rest of the Fereldan wardens went to Gwaren. We do not have time to go on some stupid research mission, for the love of-"

"You want to walk into a nest of wardens, all enthralled by the false god, and seek their aid against her? Anders, think about this."

"I am thinking!" he protested. "The Fereldan Circle isn't - well, I wouldn't count on them being much use. Most of the mages died at the end of the Blight, and those who didn't were largely killed in yesterday's fiasco!"

"We only had Loyalist mages with us," Guillaume argued. "The Libertarians were spared."

Anders groaned. "Andraste, give me strength. Maybe you think you have a handle on magi politics here, but trust me, you don't. What's to say that Irving isn't a convert himself? When we get to Gwaren, we'll sort everything out. The other wardens will know what to do. Maybe we could even-"

"You are afraid," Guillaume declared. "Afraid of returning to the tower, even though the templars have left. What did they do to you, Anders? Are those rumours true then, that templars and mages-"

"Oh, very funny," Anders snapped. "You almost had me. Not. Call me a coward all you like, but I won't change my mind. We're going to Gwaren, end of story. And if you so much even think of insulting me again, you can heal and dress your wounds yourself. Yes, don't think I haven't noticed that you're still bleeding-"

Anders never managed to finish his rant, as it turned out. Guillaume threw an odd mixture of dust in his face, and Anders sneezed thrice in quick succession, his eyes watering, until he felt his knees giving way below him.

.

.

.

His hands were bound.

This was not the only thing wrong with him, Anders discovered, as he cracked his eyes open.

The dying light of the sun caught him squarely in his retinas, and he winced, blinking quickly before struggling to sit up. The movement set the support he was lying on rocking terribly, and water sloshed in over his thighs.

"Stop that," Guillaume said.

"No." Anders managed to prop himself up, the little boat continuing to sway from side to side as he shifted his weight. His head hurt, a lot.

Guillaume had taken the oars, and the very same boat that Anders has drifted in upon. He should have sabotaged the vessel as soon as he landed. Then again, how was he to know that he was about to be drugged and kidnapped by a crazy Orlesian? It just wasn't fair.

The craft glided smoothly across the water, and Anders glanced up, trying to get his bearings. "Oh no," he groaned.

Above them, the single spire of Kinloch Hold loomed, the sun reflecting red and gold against its solid stone walls. "I hate this place." Anders tested his bonds. His wrists chafed, and he squirmed, setting the boat to rocking even further.

"Maker's breath, are you trying to drown us?"

"Take these off," Anders whined. "It's not like I can go anywhere, right?"

Guillaume sighed. "When we reach land."

Just his sodding luck.

It was dark when their boat bumped against the tower's docks. Guillaume secured it, then manhandled Anders (still bound) ungently onto the dock.

"Look, you promised," Anders protested, awkwardly holding his hands out before him as Guillaume gestured for him to take the lead. "At least the last time I returned here in chains I had something nice to look at," Anders muttered ungraciously.

The doors to the Circle Tower seemed almost naked without its customary guard of templars. The first enchanter himself was waiting for them, his face plastered with a benevolent smile.

"Anders," Irving beamed. "Welcome home."

.

.

.

**The Circle Tower**

Anders hadn't recognised all of the mages in the tower, which had been odd. Finn was still here, he had been amused to learn, and Petra, and Leorah... but others, like Keili, had left to join the Loyalists.

Irving had been suspiciously nice, and that puzzled Anders most of all.

The first enchanter joined them for dinner, after their baths; Anders snickered to see Guillaume dressed uncomfortably in a templar's old tunic and breeches. Irving seemed to understand their need for urgency and was even sympathetic about their losses at Redcliffe.

"So you think you can help us?" Anders asked, as a tranquil cleared away their plates.

"Oh, certainly," Irving said. "But come now. The hour grows late, and both of you could do with some rest."

Anders nodded. He was feeling awfully tired, and he yawned when a giggling apprentice took his arm, as another latched onto Guillaume's. The Orlesian looked like he was trying to tell him something, from the frantic twitching of his brows, but who knew with these crazy foreigners?

The apprentice led Anders to a bed on the second level of the tower. Anders collapsed into it gratefully, not even bothering to kick off his boots as his head hit the pillow with a soft whomph.

.

.

.

"Wake up."

Anders groaned.

"Andraste's flaming sword, wake up!"

A twinge of pain registered in Anders' arm, and he jerked awake, his eyes blinking blearily. "Who's there?" he demanded. "What-"

"Shh." A hand clamped over his mouth, and he mumbled something in protest. Gradually his eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he stared up into the face of a boy in his late teens.

"I've seen you before," Anders croaked as the hand cautiously left his mouth. "At the Exalted March-"

"I know." The boy moved back into the shadows, watching Anders warily. "I'm Connor. I was there."

"But that means you're a Loyalist," Anders blurted out. "Why are you here? Where's your templar?"

Loyalist mages were always seen in the company of templars, since they were obviously too much of a risk to be left alone. After all, everyone knew that mages were just one bad dream away from becoming abominations.

"They... didn't survive," Connor said. He moved stiffly, and Anders sat up in alarm.

"You're hurt. Let me-"

"No." Connor shrugged. "The healers here took care of it."

Anders stared, fascinated, at Connor's stump of an arm which had been neatly bandaged. "Can you still cast?"

Connor hesitated. "A little," he offered, then changed his mind. "No, not really. Enough. It's like learning the basics all over again."

Anders nodded. There were some things that even the most powerful magic could not restore. A twinge of sympathy filled his lungs, and he grasped for something to say.

Connor interrupted his thoughts. "Irving drugged you and your friend."

"Really?" Anders was mildly impressed. "Is that why my head hurts so much-"

"No. That's probably from the mana drain."

Oh. Come to think of it, Anders was feeling at a particularly low ebb. Odd that he hadn't noticed it earlier.

Connor glanced at the door, then back to Anders. "I don't have long..." He reached into his robes, and pulled out a sheaf of papers, passing them to Anders, who peered at them in the low light. The spidery writing was cramped and almost illegible.

"What's this?"

"A way to defeat an Old God," Connor said.

Anders looked down at the parchment with renewed interest. "But how-"

"I am the only mage who heard the Song of the Old God, and yet resisted. Can you say the same?"

Anders had to admit that he could not. The fact that he had failed to fulfil the Call meant nothing; he would have killed for her, if Amell had not gotten there first.

"I saw her," Connor added, his expression tight with fury. "I saw her in the flesh. She spoke to me. She sent her thralls after me, and they brought me here. I suppose they assume that I will become like them, in time."

"How does it work, then?" Anders asked. "The Call, the Song... is it something you can resist?"

Connor gestured sharply to the sheaves in Anders' hands.

Anders squinted at the parchment. He reached to summon a wisp, and then stopped at the feeling of emptiness in his gut, reminding him that he was out of mana. He brought the sheaf close to his face, scanning the tight scrawl spread over the page. The spells and techniques described on it seemed unnecessarily complex, their descriptions vague to the point of uselessness. Some sort of ward, perhaps? He turned the sheet, coming across a list of required components. Lyrium, elfroot, blood... wait. "This is - this is blood magic!"

Connor shrugged.

"How do you know this? You're - you're a Loyalist!" Anders spat the word as though it was a curse.

"One needs to study one's enemies carefully, particularly an enemy as deadly as a maleficar. It is... permitted for us to research the basic techniques, to channel them against the Chantry's foes."

Anders spluttered indignantly, years of restrictions and cautions and strict disciplinary action squeezing the sense out of his words. Everyone knew that blood magic was deadly, that it was wrong, forbidden; everyone knew that the Chantry came down hard on even the merest suspicion of its use. To hear that they were actually sanctioning blood mages - templars, willingly allowing such 'research' to be conducted right under their noses - Anders' veins burned with the hypocrisy.

"How do you get away with it?" he asked, fascinated despite himself. "What's there to prevent you from turning, using people for your own evil ends?"

Connor smirked. "It is not a terribly well known fact," he acknowledged. "For some... it is better that they do not know."

"And if I told-"

"Don't be an idiot, Anders. The Old God is our enemy. You and that Orlesian need to get out of here, now, before Irving makes up his mind to kill you both."

"I - you-" He was right, Anders realised with a sickening twist in his gut. Andraste's knicker weasels. Blood mages in the Chantry. "Oh, Alistair will laugh when he finds out," Anders muttered. "What's wrong with Irving, anyway? He was always - I mean, he was never really that bad. Poisoning his guests and keeping prisoners? Really?"

"The whole tower is infected," Connor insisted. "Irving - Finn - Petra - they're all her agents now."

"Look, I need more information-"

"There's no time."

Anders almost yelped in surprise as Guillaume materialised by his shoulder, fully dressed again in his leather armour. "Don't - don't do that," Anders stuttered. "Don't you know that it's very dangerous - not to mention rude - to sneak up on mages?"

"We need to go," Guillaume said.

"You knew something was wrong at dinner," Anders accused. "Didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?"

"How? I could hardly pass you a note. We came here for assistance, and we could not leave without learning more about our enemy. Do you have something we can use?"

The two mages exchanged glances. "You'll have the advantage if you follow my instructions," Connor said. "The rest is up to you."

Guillaume frowned, gazing at the sheaf of papers, and then back at Connor. A flash of recognition showed briefly on the Orlesian's face. "Are you coming with us?"

Connor bared his teeth in a thin smile. "I'll be fine. Go."

Anders shook his head. "Now you're being the idiot. Come on, you'll be safer with us. Probably, at any rate. Besides, I can't use this - I'm not a blood mage. We need you-"

"To kill that unholy witch, you need a blood mage who can still cast," Connor snarled. "Just go. Go, before-"

Light flooded into the room as the door swung open, revealing First Enchanter Irving, with Leorah and Petra standing beside him.

Anders turned to Guillaume, ready to mouth something witty, but the Orlesian had disappeared. Along with Connor's sheaf of instructions.

"It seems you were telling the truth," Irving said to Connor, his eyes narrowed. "I may have been mistaken about you."

Connor inclined his head slightly, taking a step away from Anders.

"Where's the other one?" Irving asked.

"I haven't seen the Orlesian," Connor said.

Anders managed to stop his eye from twitching.

Irving sighed. "Go, rouse the others," he said to Leorah. "Seal the doors. No one enters or exits until he is found."

The elf nodded, slipping from the first enchanter's side. Petra took a step forwards, taking hold of Anders' hands and fixing a pair of manacles over his wrists.

The metal felt cold against his skin, and he suppressed a shudder. "Huh," Anders said. "Now this brings back memories."

Irving smiled. "You'll find that the tower is a different place from the home you repeatedly left, Anders."

"I'll say. For one, the food standards have really dropped."

Petra stabbed Anders in the back with a staff. "Ow!" he yelped.

The smile did not leave Irving's face. Anders almost found himself longing for Greagoir; at least the templar never grinned when issuing runaway mages with sentences of solitary confinement. His feeling of dread only grew with the first enchanter's next words.

"Take him to the Harrowing Chamber," Irving ordered.

"And kill him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, interesting2125, Metroidvania, Misdirection, mutive, Noah Sila, Restless Goddess, Snafu1000, Spikesagitta, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision.
> 
> I'm too lazy to test whether lifeward is self-castable; either way, I'm going to rule that it is. No one really wants Anders to end up in a watery grave, right? :p


	23. Wrath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my long-suffering beta, oneplusme, for his continued support and amusing in-game anecdotes, to juri for actually liking this chapter and reassuring my fragile ego, and to sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> I realised a while back that I'd incorrectly placed Redcliffe chapel outside of the main keep when it's really on the second level... oh well, I'm going to run with that mistake now. 
> 
> Warning for implied rape in this chapter.

** Recap - Sylvanna, Ishantha, Morrigan - chapters 15, 21 **

[Redcliffe watchtower]

Ishantha: I do wish Mama would stop angsting about Valena. She's just one girl! If we tried to save every broodmother, where would we be? NECK DEEP IN TENTACLES, THAT'S WHERE!

Morrigan: ...

Ishantha: It's not like they even know how disgusting and corpulent and icky they are! I'm sure Valena's happier being a darkspawn baby producing machine! At least now her life has meaning!

Morrigan: I stopped listening to you some time ago. What did you say?

Ishantha: Can I wipe the warden's mind and turn her into a drooling idiot?

Morrigan: What? No. Don't be foolish.

Ishantha: Aww, but mum...

Morrigan: No.

[Redcliffe castle, six chapters later]

Sylvanna: I'm going to find Valena.

Ishantha: WHAT? What happened to the 'I'm going to do everything you want, O adorable Old God baby' thing?

Sylvanna: I think you screwed up somewhere. Just saying.

Ishantha: *rages*

Sylvanna: Bye now! Don't wait up for me!

Ishantha: Have you thought about how stupid it is that you're telling this to my face instead of quietly sneaking away even though you promised me you wouldn't seek out Valena?

Sylvanna: ...No. Why?

Ishantha: Just wondering.

Sylvanna: So as I was saying, leaving now...

Ishantha: No you're not.

Sylvanna: Yes I am.

Ishantha: No you're not.

Sylvanna: Yes I am.

Ishantha: No you're not.

Sylvanna: Yes I am.

Ishantha: NO! A THOUSAND TIMES NO! NO TIMES INFINITY!

Sylvanna: ...Ow.

Ishantha: Thrall-mummy, go sleep off your sudden bout of rationality.

Sylvanna: Okay...

Ishantha: This isn't going to horribly backfire on me at all. Yay! I rock!

* * *

.

.

.

**Redcliffe**

The day had proceeded remarkably smoothly, from the systematic killings of the remaining wardens, to the coordination of the rebuilding and clean-up efforts. Ser Tomas, the head of the Redcliffe army, had been surprisingly efficient, putting the remaining militiamen to good use.

Morrigan found herself at a loose end. On one hand, their victory was clearly advantageous, of course; something to be valued and even proud of. On the other...

It seemed all too easy, too soon. There was a sense of unreality to their lives, a degree of implausibility that gnawed at her and filled her sleep with formless thoughts of death and suffering.

Something would go wrong. Something always went wrong, didn't it?

She picked up her steps, heading towards the main keep. Once she reached her room, she could undress, change form, take flight. The air here was oppressive, humid and heavy; a change of scenery could only do her good.

As she hurried, a faint flicker of light caught her eye. Morrigan paused, took a step forwards, and then paused again, frowning as she recognised the source of the illumination.

The old chapel of Redcliffe castle had been abandoned for months. In the beginning, a few loyal Andrastians had snuck in to light the candles and clean the altar under the cover of darkness. They had soon been discovered, however, and once Ishantha had made a public demonstration using their hides, the visitations had stopped.

There was a light in it now, glowing bluish-green through the chapel's windows. Morrigan hesitated. It would be kinder if she dealt with the intruder herself than if she left them to her daughter's wrath, and unexpectedly, Morrigan was in the mood to be kind.

She approached the entrance quietly, finding the door ajar. Nudging it with the toe of her boot, she stepped inside, letting her eyes adjust to the low light before proceeding any further.

Andraste's carven form loomed over the front of the chapel, casting long dark shadows against the walls. Morrigan's mouth was suddenly dry, and she swallowed, painfully.

Unwillingly, she was reminded of the last time she had set foot into the chapel, ten years ago...

.

.

.

Morrigan hurt.

It had not been sufficient for the warden to say 'no'. Oh, everything about that woman had to be turned into a fully staged Orlesian spectacle, complete with music and songs and thrice-damned dancing girls. Why couldn't she have been more reasonable? Why couldn't she have seen that this ritual would have been to her benefit?

Now everything was ruined. Four hundred years since the last Blight, and the remaining two wardens in Ferelden had to be as thick as two doorknobs, both of them.

The blood from the elf woman had healed her, but barely; her skin still itched and felt as fragile as the thinnest vellum. Trust Sylvanna to overreact. Trust her to have a hysterical fit at the worst possible moment.

Why couldn't she have understood?

Morrigan's heart beat furiously in her chest, high on adrenaline and the dregs of blood magic. She took a calming breath, slowly, and forced herself to be at ease.

It was not too late. She could still fulfil her task.

The stone of the chapel was cold beneath her bare feet, and she moved silently across it, like a cat. Her senses were still heightened from her recent change in form, and she smelled the former templar before she saw him; traces of steel and leather, sweat and unwashed socks and underneath it all, a faint hint of soap.

Her stomach knotted within her, and she swallowed down her unease. She had planned to make this easy for him; pleasant, even; but there was no time now for seduction or finesse.

It was all Sylvanna's fault, damn her.

Whatever happened next would be on her conscience, not Morrigan's.

"Maker take you, don't you ever knock?" Alistair asked, turning from his prayers. His eyes widened to the size of saucers as he stared at her, stark naked and covered from neck to knees in another woman's blood. "Andraste's flaming sword-"

"Shut up," Morrigan growled. It was too much to hope that she would find him compliant, even if she had been properly attired and composed. Perhaps the best she could expect was stunned silence.

"I - Maker's breath-" Alistair gulped for air, unable to take his eyes from her. "You're - you're naked! And covered in blood!"

"Surely, you must be dreaming." Morrigan scratched out a series of glyphs on the chapel floor with a stub of charcoal, taken from a brazier behind the altar. As she leant over, the former templar was afforded an excellent view, and Morrigan felt his gaze burning into her back.

"Dreaming... right," he said, and pinched himself. "Ow!"

"This may mean little to one such as you, Alistair," Morrigan said without looking at him, as she glanced over her runes, "but I wish for you to know... I am truly sorry."

Alistair's nervous laughter echoed throughout the chapel as he backed away, hands raised protectively before him. "You know, I was fine with the blood. And the spooky magic thing you're doing on the ground. I can even get over the fact that you're not wearing any clothes.

"But Morrigan... an apology? Now I'm really terrified."

She smiled, the expression failing to reach her eyes.

"You should be."

.

.

.

The brazier in front of the altar glowed with an unnatural fire, the source of the odd light. The bluish tones flickered over Andraste's cold face, giving the statue a vague semblance of life. Morrigan's eyes darted over the chapel floor. The runes she had worked onto the stone were long gone now, of course, turned into so much dust. Like the feeling of dried blood on her skin. Like the taste of ashes in her mouth.

There came a scratching noise, the sound of steel upon stone. Morrigan pivoted, stopped, and listened. "'Twould be better for you if you showed yourself," she said almost lazily, though her skin prickled.

The noise repeated itself, and Morrigan fought the childish urge to summon more light. She carefully stepped to the side, placing the altar at her back. Better to be cautious, all the same.

The scritching whine sounded a third time, and Morrigan's ears stung in protest. Slowly, details emerged from the shadows: a hand, holding a blade dripping with viscous fluid, the point dragging across the chapel wall; bare feet; a white hem; and Sylvanna's hair glowing silvery in the light.

Sylvanna smiled at her.

"What are you doing?" Morrigan demanded. "You know as well as I that trespassing here is forbidden-"

"It's late," Sylvanna said. Her voice echoed unpleasantly within the chapel's walls, too loud and too piercing. She stared down the length of her blade, towards the altar behind Morrigan. "I'm too late."

"You should not be here," Morrigan insisted. Her sense of unease only grew as Sylvanna met her eyes, her stare vacant and glassy, like the eyes of a tranquil. Morrigan shuddered. "Put the knife down."

"I trusted you." Sylvanna began to move. She ran her fingers over the dusty walls and tapestries, the dagger dangling at her side. "I loved you."

For a moment, Morrigan wondered if she was dreaming, if she had been entrapped by a vengeful demon or Fade spirit, but no - the world was still too solid, too real to be a mere Fade construct.

If that was so, then this had to be real, too.

"Sylvanna-"

She rounded on Morrigan suddenly, the point of the dagger jabbing into the air, flicking drops of liquid onto the floor. Morrigan jerked back a step to avoid letting what was most probably poison fall onto her skin.

"Why did you do it, Morrigan?"

"Perhaps you should clarify-"

"The ritual," Sylvanna said, her eyes flashing with rage, far past the point of reason. The hand holding the dagger waved in the air, a deadly silver wand reflecting sea-spray blue in the light.

Morrigan brought her gaze back to Sylvanna's face. "I did not wish to stand back and watch you die," she said evenly, her voice steady and soothing. "That was why I-"

"It wasn't your choice." Sylvanna took a step forwards as Morrigan retreated, skirting the side of the altar. "Honestly, Morrigan, what did you think I was going to say? I couldn't do that to Alistair. Not after - not after he took the throne for me. Not after he gave up everything for me."

"'Twas for his own good! Do you believe he would have let you take that final blow, knowing that it meant your death? Do you not think that he would have leapt at the chance to evade the crown he never desired?"

"Don't." The point of the dagger waved in front of Morrigan's face, and she recoiled from it. "You have no right to say that about Alistair. You have no _right_."

Sylvanna took another step forwards, and Morrigan slid back, mirroring her pace. Perhaps she still had time to cast a paralysis spell, or set a glyph-

"If I had said 'yes'," Sylvanna continued, even as she advanced. "If I had taken the deal. Would you have come to me then? Would you have come to me - dripping with his seed, with his scent upon your skin; would you have stood before me and said 'you made the right choice'?" Her words dripped with loathing, far more virulent than the poison that coated her blade.

Morrigan dropped her voice to a whisper. "Why must you dredge up old ghosts?"

"After that night, I could never trust you again."

Sylvanna lunged, faster than Morrigan had thought possible. She ducked to the side, or tried to; Sylvanna latched onto her shoulder with nails that clutched like claws.

Pain blossomed in her chest; Morrigan screamed, a primal, wordless sound that felt as though it had been born from someone else's throat. Her back hit the side of the altar; she slid down until her body crumpled against the floor. Sylvanna knelt close to her, one hand still upon the dagger that was buried to the hilt between Morrigan's breasts.

Her blood felt unnaturally warm as it ran over her skin. The poison raced through her veins, suppressing her smallest movement; she imagined it coursing blue and cold through her body, pumped through her lungs and limbs by the beating of her treacherous heart.

Details reached out to her, grasping for her attention: the paralysis of her lips and tongue, the stiff immobility of her eyelids, impossibly heavy. She imagined herself clawing for freedom, hands flashing to weave a dozen spells; her fingertips twitched, slightly, but that was the pathetic extent of her movement. Above her, there was Sylvanna's weight, suffocating and bruising, drawing strength from her limbs even as Morrigan's blood poured down and coated the chapel steps in gore.

She should have seen this coming, Morrigan thought bitterly. She was no stranger to betrayal, no ignorant ingénue in the first blush of passion. She had always been sensible, cautious. To be blinded now by foolish pity - to be struck down despite all of her power and learning - it was absolutely deplorable.

Sylvanna withdrew the dagger, and Morrigan felt a surge of intense warmth, her flesh burning white-hot with pain. There was nothing but hatred in Sylvanna's eyes as the blade arced, silver streaked with blood, angled for the perfect thrust to slice open her throat.

As one constantly surrounded by death, Morrigan had often considered the many different paths that could lead to her own demise. Darkspawn, war, apostates, bandits, demons, Flemeth... being murdered by her own psychotic lover had seemed particularly unlikely by comparison.

More than anything, Morrigan hated to admit that her mother had been right.

Love truly was a weakness.

.

.

.

The afterlife was far more uncomfortable than she had anticipated.

"Mother. Mother! Wake up! Wake up!"

Morrigan's head felt unnaturally sluggish. She groaned. Perhaps if she remained still, the voice would go away.

"Mother. Mother, please."

Morrigan's eyes fluttered open. Her vision swam, then reformed into the anxious face of her daughter.

"Don't move," Ishantha warned, her small hands hovering around Morrigan's shoulders. "You - you were dead. I brought you back. I didn't know that I could still do that," she added, with a faint tinge of pride.

"Dead?" Morrigan carefully closed her eyes. She didn't feel dead. Clammy and sticky, perhaps, and slightly claustrophobic from Ishantha's presence. But certainly not...

She sat up abruptly, pushing her daughter to the side as Ishantha squeaked in dismay.

"Where is she?"

"Mother, please don't excite yourself."

Morrigan reached up and gripped the side of the altar. She leant her weight against it, wincing in pain as she levered herself upright, swaying slightly. She paused for a moment, waiting for her balance to return.

The bluish illumination in the brazier had been extinguished, replaced with a clean, white radiance emanating from a wisp by Ishantha's shoulder, the light extending to the far corners of the chapel. The bloodstains down Morrigan's robes appeared luridly garish, and she pressed a hand to them, trying to contain the sense of wrongness in her chest.

At the far end of the chapel, Sylvanna's body lay crumpled face down, the dagger abandoned on the steps, surrounded by a splatter of blood.

Morrigan hesitated. "Is she-"

"Dead? Not yet." Ishantha tilted her head to the side, her lips pursed. "Do you want her to be?"

Morrigan closed her eyes. The question was not simply an idle query. There was tension in her daughter's voice, a definite note of unease that the girl did not quite manage to conceal.

Morrigan's eyes snapped open. "What did you do?"

Her daughter paled, her lower lip trembling. "I heard you screaming, so I came. I healed you. Your heart had stopped. I had to recreate it, and then-"

"Ishantha." Morrigan took a step towards her, relieved to find that her legs could support her weight. "Do not lie to me."

Her daughter stood her ground, but her small hands clutched at the hem of her apron, betraying her distress. "I'm not," she protested. "Mother, I'm not, I swear it-"

"Stop." Morrigan breathed out, steadying herself. "Tell me what you did."

Ishantha lowered her eyes, biting her lip. "I was only trying to help-"

"Now."

The wisp at Ishantha's shoulder bobbed like a glass buoy surfacing above rocky waters, long shadows wavering across the walls. "She came to me," her daughter explained. "The... the warden. She told me she was going to leave you."

Morrigan quirked a brow, otherwise remaining silent. Scepticism radiated from her in waves.

"I... I told her that she was wrong. That she had promised. I-"

"Promised what, exactly? Be specific," Morrigan hissed.

Her daughter hesitated. "She wanted to find Valena," she murmured, almost inaudibly.

The fool. Morrigan could well imagine it though - the thirst for one last pathetic act of charity, the desire to find meaning in death. She supposed that might have explained Sylvanna's emotionless mien as they skipped through the forests of Redcliffe, murdering wardens and robbing the bodies of dead templars.

"And?"

"And I... I stopped her."

There was a hint of pride in those words. Morrigan suppressed the urge to wring her daughter's neck, so wan in the white light. She drew a breath through lungs that felt new and raw like two bloody sacs.

"You stopped her," Morrigan repeated.

Ishantha spoke quickly, the words tripping out of her mouth in a rush, as if their velocity would soften their impact. "I made her forget about Valena."

Morrigan allowed the silence to peter out between them, until Ishantha squirmed before her gaze and wrung her hands together.

"I had to do it!" her daughter insisted. "I had to stop her. I knew that she was going to hurt you, that she no longer cared about you. And it would have worked. I mean, it did work, of course, it's just-"

"You made her forget." Morrigan took a step closer, and her daughter backed away, satin shoes scraping on the cold stone. "Did you also forget our conversation, forbidding the very same thing? Or did you remember, and simply choose to disobey me?"

Ishantha shook her head vigorously. "I had to do it," she said. "I had to! Mother, you weren't there. You didn't see her. It was for her own good-"

"And her attempt to murder me? Was that for my own good, also?"

Ishantha breathed in sharply, eyes wide. "No - no! Of course that wasn't - I mean, that was an unintended side effect. Of sorts. And it's completely fixed now, I swear! I made sure of it."

Morrigan looked down at Sylvanna's body. Hair covered her face, obscuring her expression, but the tell-tale rise and fall of her chest gave proof to her daughter's assertion that she was still alive. "'Tis fixed, you say."

"Yes, of course, I..." Ishantha's voice trailed off. "I made sure of it," she said, a touch sulkily. "When the warden wakes up, she'll be the same as before, I promise."

Morrigan slowly turned to face her daughter, eyes as cold and unforgiving as the stone that surrounded them. Ishantha flinched under that glowering stare, gazing up at her mother through lashes that shimmered with moisture. "I'm sorry," the girl whispered, her voice unsteady. "I'll do better next time, I promise-"

"Get out."

"Mother, please-"

"Get. Out."

Ishantha stared at her in tears, her wisp dimming, before she turned and fled in a rustle of skirts and scuffed soles.

Morrigan slowly walked back to the steps of the chapel. She snapped her fingers, and the candles on the altar ignited, bathing Andraste in an orange glow. She wrapped her hand in a cloth and bent down to retrieve the dagger.

It looked like such a simple, ordinary thing. Dwarven make, though plain, with no runes adorning its surface. Morrigan methodically wiped the blood and remaining poison from the blade and grip, before tossing the used cloth in the general direction of the altar.

She held onto the dagger itself, her knuckles white. Her shadow moved before her as she crept back to Sylvanna's side, carefully lowering herself to the ground, wary of any sudden movement. Sylvanna's breathing sounded deep and heavy, but that in itself was no guarantee of insentience.

She gently swept the hair back from Sylvanna's face, tucking it behind a pointed ear. Sylvanna's skin and shift were both hopelessly splattered with blood, clumps of hair clotted through with it. A small, sleepy noise escaped from Sylvanna's lips, and Morrigan stilled, not daring to move again until Sylvanna's breath settled back into its deep, regular pattern.

Fixed. One had to wonder what that word could mean to a being of immense power. Had Morrigan herself been 'fixed' over the years? Would she even be aware of such a thing, had it occurred?

Sylvanna stirred restlessly, and Morrigan stroked her forehead until she calmed, flickers of movement visible beneath closed lids. Her fingertips came away coated with blood, and Morrigan sighed, weariness overcoming her sense of self-preservation.

Someone had to clean up this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, interesting2125, Metroidvania, Misdirection, mutive, Spikesagitta, wayfaringpanda, XoOMGiTSpiNsox and Zero-Vision. Thanks for sticking with me for so long =)


	24. The Harrowing Chamber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Originally this was supposed to be Alistair's chapter, but it upset the chronology, so Anders had to go and steal the limelight.
> 
> With many thanks to my lovely beta, oneplusme, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - Anders, Guillaume - chapter 22 **

[Redcliffe]

Anders: Watch me as I make a dashing and heroic escape from Redcliffe Castle!

Grappling hook: *slips free of its moorings*

Anders: Well, that didn't go as planned. At least I know how to swim, right? (Right?)

[Lake Calenhad]

Anders: Wow, my shirt and pants are really wet. Hey, why are there no lingering descriptions of my handsome, well-defined muscles rippling beneath my damp and clinging clothes? Don't you people even know the meaning of fan service?

Guillaume: Anders, no one cares. Look, everyone's dead and we need intel. Let's go to the Circle Tower.

Anders: What do you mean, 'no one cares'?

Guillaume: You're a predominantly straight man in a femslash fic. You're not going to get laid. Period.

Anders: Next you're going to tell me that there's really no Spirit of Satinalia bringing gifts to nice children!

Guillaume: *drugs Anders and dumps him in a boat*

Anders: Wow, _déjà vu._ Here I am, tied up again, heading towards the Circle Tower. *sniffs* It brings tears to my eyes, it really does.

Irving: Anders, so lovely to see you again. Look how you're grown!

Anders: Can't talk, eating.

Irving: Have a pleasant nap!

[Hours pass]

Connor: Wake up!

Anders: Urk.

Connor: Irving drugged and molested - I mean, 'drained' your mana!

Anders: Really? ...What's this tingling feeling in my 'no' area?

Connor: That should go away eventually. Here - have some magical research on how to defeat an Old God.

Anders: This is Chantry-sanctioned blood magic!

Connor: Suck it up, apostate boy.

Anders: *seethes*

Irving: Now where did that Orlesian go?

Connor: Don't look at me.

Irving: Can't you do anything right, minions of mine? At least kill the comic relief.

Anders: No! I object! Why don't you just lock me up for a year?

Irving: Who do you think I am, Greagoir?

Anders: ...Point taken.

* * *

.

.

.

**The Circle Tower**

"...And kill him," Irving ordered.

"Now just wait a minute," Anders said, even as Petra tugged on his manacles. "You can't just kill me! I haven't done anything this time! I'm a grey warden!" he yelled, grabbing hold of the door frame, as Petra tried unsuccessfully to drag him out of the room. "I have rights!"

"Deity take your rights," Petra snapped. Electricity sparked at her fingertips and tingled up through Anders' arms, causing them to spasm. He collapsed against Petra, the mage shoving his weight off of her.

She used to be fun, Anders thought wistfully. His flesh stung unpleasantly, and his fingers twitched. The manacles chafed against his wrists as Petra gave them a sharp tug, and he stumbled, almost stepping on her robes.

"Pull yourself together," she said, without turning to look at him. Anders dragged his feet, and she gave the chain another sharp tug.

Anders had always bemoaned the number of steps in the Circle Tower, but now he wished that they would never end. He raised his eyes from the dull, gritty stairs to gaze at the curve of Petra's buttocks as they shifted beneath her thin robes, the chain linking Petra to his manacles clanking between them.

"Enjoy the view while you still can," Petra said, glancing over her shoulder.

Anders crept closer to her, gathering the chain up in his hands. Petra stopped short, glaring down at him from the higher step. "Any closer and I'll fry you here and now."

"Look, I just want to talk," Anders protested. "Just you and me. No Irving, no Leorah."

"Talk?" Petra laughed at him. "Why would I have anything to say to a dead man?"

Anders turned on his most pleading look. "I'll be fast. Just listen to me, all right? For old times' sake?" He took a deep breath, mind racing. Think Anders, think. There had to be something she could want, some angle he could push...

"I'll help you get into the wardens," he offered. "You'll be free of Irving and this whole place for ever. You get to travel a lot, and help orphans and things. It's very rewarding!"

Petra stared at him as though he was an idiot. "Just keep walking," she ordered, pulling sharply enough that the chain slid out of his hands.

"Wait - wait!" Anders pleaded, as she began racing up the steps two by two. "You can tell Irving that I knocked you unconscious! No one would blame you if they knew you had been trying your very best to kill me! Accidents happen to everyone, right?"

"Anders," Petra sighed, "just shut up." She did something complicated with her hands, and Anders felt his face going numb. His tongue simply wouldn't move from the base of his mouth, and try as he might, the only discernible sound he could make came out as some sort of grunt.

They ascended several flights of stairs in dull, uncomfortable silence. Anders came to the conclusion that this was now officially the Worst Homecoming Ever.

.

.

.

"Take him to the Harrowing Chamber. And kill him," Irving ordered.

Guillaume sank back into the shadows as Petra slammed a pair of cuffs on Anders, the mage complaining bitterly in his usual fashion. Just his luck. A few minutes earlier and they would have been out of the Circle Tower and away from all of these magic users and their apparently contagious craziness, but would Anders listen? Of course not.

Irving scanned the room as Anders and his captor filed out, followed closely by Connor. The first enchanter was ancient, his longevity betraying some degree of wisdom and caution; Guillaume tensed as Irving's eyes passed over his position. Cramped behind the bed, Guillaume had chosen the spot where the shadows in the room were darkest, his back pressed flush against the wall. If Andraste favoured him, the old mage would simply ignore the near inaudible sound of his breath and move on...

Which he did.

Guillaume offered his thanks to the Prophet, his eyes closing briefly in prayer as the sound of the first enchanter's footsteps disappeared into the distance. After counting to ten, he skulked towards the door, peering down the empty passageway.

The Harrowing Chamber. Anders had said once that the templars had kept him in isolation within the dungeons in the basement of the tower, which was where Guillaume had expected Petra to head. But the Harrowing Chamber... wasn't that the site of apprentices' trial by fire? He had heard Amell talking of how she had been so bored during the first half of her Harrowing that she had amused herself by watching the birds flying just outside the window...

That suggested he should travel up, if Fereldan and Orlesian magi quarters were organised according to similar architectural needs.

He carefully peeled himself off the wall, observing his surroundings. The enchanter quarters possessed no windows, giving the rooms a dreary, depressing air, lit as they were only by magical fire. The Avvar had designed the tower for security, long before the magi had adopted the structure as their home. Unfortunately, that did not make his task any easier.

As he slunk soundlessly through the corridors, his movements barely more detectable as a ripple on still water, he considered the fact that the life of the faithful was never meant to be easy.

.

.

.

"Mmmhrmm! Mmph!"

"Anders, you're giving me a headache," Petra complained. She waved her hand for a few moments, and then sighed with relief as a swirl of magic settled on her skin.

There had been considerable changes made to the Harrowing Chamber since Anders had been last... well, Harrowed. The lyrium pedestal was now dark and empty, nothing more than bare stone. Gone too were the templars, those sentinels encased in steel, forever prepared to relieve a failed apprentice of both their troubles and their life.

Scored along the floor of the chamber were numerous channels. They were worked so perfectly into the stone that they must have been created by magic, since Anders was pretty sure that there was only one dwarf in the tower (and come to think of it, it was weird that he hadn't seen Dagna, wasn't it?)

The channels led into the centre of the chamber, the floor sloping away downwards to the circular edge of the walls. The chamber was otherwise bare, dim beams of moonlight streaming in through the latticed windows.

It was almost romantic. There was nothing like the threat of being killed to get him in the mood.

Petra wound the lengths of Anders' chain around the lyrium pedestal, securing the manacles to a peg in the centre of the empty bowl. The sound of metal clanking against stone echoed around the room.

Anders worked at trying to move his jaw. The effects of the paralysis were wearing off slowly, though he still couldn't feel sensation from his lips and tongue. "Mmrwth. Mrph hmm thmph." The sound of his mumbled words served to mask the slight clanking of his chains as he flexed his wrists, seeking to nudge free the lockpick he had hidden in his sleeve.

Petra placed her hands on his shoulders, her face so near that they were almost touching. "Close your eyes, Anders. This won't hurt a bit."

Anders blinked. Petra withdrew, her hands slipping from him as she stepped away. The skirts of her robes dragged along the ground, sweeping in steady, circular motions. She began to chant under her breath, softly enough that he struggled to make out the words, the lilt of her voice a counterpoint to the swish of fabric against stone.

Anders closed his eyes. The small, short pick in his palm slowly worked its way down to the tips of his fingers. He carefully felt his way to the keyhole of the manacles, inserting the piece of metal by touch alone. Petra's voice increased in volume; Anders ignored the other mage as he focused on the task at hand.

_Click_. He could have wept for joy. Anders suddenly stumbled forwards as he tried to snap his wrists free, the chain pulling short as he overbalanced, the pick almost slipping from his sweaty hand. No. Really? A second lock? They had to be kidding-

Petra finished her spell, and magic swirled around Anders, brushing the hair back from his face. He looked up just in time to see her hurling a bolt of energy towards him, heat and golden light filling his vision. The spell hit him squarely in the chest a moment later, and then there was nothing but pain, searing white hot and burning through the paralysis in his jaw.

Anders threw his head back, light pouring from his eyes, and screamed.

.

.

.

Reaching the Harrowing Chamber took more time than Guillaume had anticipated.

The tower itself was nearly deserted; hardly any of the mages had survived the archdemon and the troubles that had plagued them during the Blight. But even one mage could be a handful, and the tower was structured in such a way that there was only one route up.

Avoiding the few stray apprentices who had ventured near his path had taken up most of his time, but eventually he made it to the summit of the tower, drawn by the keening wail of tortured screaming.

The stairs flew under his feet as he ran, the need for stealth and silence long gone. Reaching the mouth of the chamber, he was forced to hold a hand before his eyes; the light was so bright that it burned, momentarily blinding him.

Anders was still alive, miraculously, but his screams were growing weaker. There was only one other mage in the chamber, and she had her back to Guillaume, her arms raised as she maintained the power of her spell.

There was no time to hesitate. Guillaume ran forwards, trusting in the sound of Anders' suffering to cover his footsteps.

At the last moment, Petra turned, her eyes crackling with power. Guillaume watched the surprise on her face as he slid a dagger up between her ribs, warm blood gushing over his hand and down his arm.

The spell flickered and died a second later as Petra's body collapsed with a thud. The blood draining from her wound flowed down the channels etched into the floor, seeping down towards the edges of the Harrowing Chamber.

"Anders," Guillaume said. "Anders."

The mage's eyes flickered as Guillaume held his head steady, supporting the dead weight of his body. "Hmm?" Anders cautiously opened his mouth, looking as though he was surprised to find himself alive. His gaze wandered over the blood splattered down Guillaume's leathers.

"You killed her," Anders said.

Guillaume stepped away, the mage tottering on his feet and grabbing the pedestal for support. Guillaume knelt down and studied the manacles with a practised eye, choosing one of his lockpicks and carefully beginning to work at the clasps.

"You didn't have to kill her."

Guillaume grunted in response. Another tumbler clicked, and the manacles sprang free, clattering against the pedestal as Anders pushed himself away from them, rubbing his wrists painfully.

"Can you walk?" Guillaume asked.

"I'll have to." Anders grimaced, glancing across at Petra's body. "Uh oh."

"What does that mean?"

Pale streams of light were rising from the blood trickling from the mage's corpse, growing in intensity as the rivulets crept closer to the edges of the Harrowing Chamber. The illumination cast their skin in a hideous greenish tone, shadows flickering against the wall.

"I don't know," Anders said grimly, "but I vote we don't stay around to find out."

Guillaume supported the mage as they limped towards the stairs, carefully avoiding the channels of blood. "Wait," he said, as Anders stepped forwards. He pressed his ear to the wood of the door, closing his eyes briefly. He held two fingers up, miming an entrance way and gesturing at two imaginary spots at either side.

_Out of mana_, Anders mouthed at him.

Oh, Maker. Mages. Guillaume would be incredibly happy if he never had to see another one again in his life.

He reached for a vial tucked away inside his tunic, and passed it to Anders. The mage snatched it out of his hands like a starving dog lunging for a bone, uncorking the vessel and downing the blue fluid within.

Anders waved for him to stand back, and Guillaume did so cautiously, watching the mage as he swayed on his feet. Anders began to gesture, his lips moving silently. He paused, taking a breath, and then began to cast again; a moment later, his face gained a little colour and he straightened, a smirk returning to his face.

"Let's go. Quickly," Anders said.

The door opened onto a scene of the two tower mages caught in suspended animation; one of them had been talking, his mouth skewed open in an almost comical expression. "Where is the fastest way out?" Guillaume asked.

Anders turned to him with a crooked smile. "Follow me."

They flew down another flight of stairs, Guillaume following a step behind as not to tread on Anders' hem. Magewear was incredibly impractical; one might as well head into battle wearing a dress.

"There! There they are!"

Guillaume looked up to see a trio of mages racing up to meet them, their long, awkward robes held up away from their feet.

"Here!" Anders said, pointing towards a door.

Guillaume pushed the mage through it, slamming the door shut behind them. Anders summoned a wisp, providing illumination; Guillaume grabbed a pair of nearby chairs and propped them up as a barricade, following them with a large oak table. The muffled voices on the other side of the door rose in volume; Guillaume caught the edges of something incomprehensible.

At the other end of the room, Anders was scrabbling at the wall with something metallic.

"Take this," Anders offered. A large stone block was deposited in Guillaume's hands, and he shoved it to the side. Daylight shone through the empty space in the tower wall, and far below them, Lake Calenhad glistened an idyllic blue.

Guillaume glanced over his shoulder. Beneath the barricade, flames of magical fire had begun to lick under the door, burning green and orange.

Anders removed another stone, and the light grew brighter. "Glad I never got around to using this escape plan," he mused, as they finished widening the hole. "Ser Bran was on to me, I was sure. Oh well. I heard a demon ripped his heart out."

"Anders," Guillaume said, swallowing, "how in Andraste's name do you think that this is going to help? No one could survive that fall-"

"Ah." Anders turned to him with a crazy gleam in his eyes, grinning so widely that it almost split his face. "Leave that to me."

"Anders-"

The mage began to cast a series of spells, his voice thick and guttural as the words crawled over Guillaume's skin. A shimmer of blue light surrounded him, settling down over his body like a veil, followed shortly by a tight, prickling feeling on his skin.

"What was that?"

Anders repeated the spells, a similar stream of light falling over his own body. "Lifeward, regeneration," he said, as if that was sufficient explanation. "Come on. I'll go first," he offered.

With those ominous words, Anders took off his boots, securing them by the laces to his belt. Guillaume followed suit, his hands automatically going to the oilskin package at his side, where he had stored Connor's precious instructions. They had better be worth it, after all the effort they had gone through to acquire them. If that snivelling little mage had truly betrayed them, as Irving had believed...

"Come on!" Anders urged, disappearing through the hole. Guillaume glanced towards the door; something crashed into it from the other side, sparks and charred wood flying into the room. He could see movement through the flames, and behind that, the sound of chanting rose to a crescendo.

Guillaume stuck his head through the gap in the tower wall. Anders had slid his whole body outside, feet balanced on a narrow ledge with his back pressed tightly against the wall of the tower.

"Anders, what are you-"

"Aim for the water," the mage suggested. He shot a dazzling grin over his shoulder, and then he jumped, with a whoop of elation that was followed swiftly by a distant splash.

Guillaume watched the ripples on the lake for as long as he dared. A shape bobbed up on the water, though it was impossible at this distance to tell whether Anders was still alive.

There was another crash as more of the door broke away, the heat from the fires making the stench of burning wood all the more unbearable. Guillaume carefully ducked under the gap, sliding one foot onto the ledge, and then the other.

It was a long way down.

A cool breeze touched the back of his neck. The pressure of stone behind him was only slightly reassuring; his feet struggled to keep purchase upon the ledge below.

The shouting grew louder. The mages would have broken through the door by now; it was only a matter of time before they came within casting range. After that happened, the outcome would be inevitable: death from behind or below. It was the poorest of choices.

There was no hope of hitting the water. There was too much land in the way; Anders must have done something with magic to make his trajectory drift over the lake. There was no possible way that he could survive this. What was he thinking? Then again, if Anders was alive, perhaps he could prise Connor's documents from Guillaume's dead body. That would be worth something, wouldn't it?

_Andraste guide me_, he prayed, and threw himself off the ledge.

.

.

.

It was with some surprise that Guillaume found himself bobbing upon on the surface of Lake Calenhad, coughing up water out of lungs that burned. No broken bones, no concussion.

"Anders," he croaked, and then coughed again. "Anders?"

"Right here," Anders said cheerfully. He glided up behind Guillaume in the same boat that they had taken to the tower, a immense smile plastered on his face. He held out a hand, helping Guillaume in over the edge.

Water dripped down into the bottom of the boat. "Are you sure you're feeling better?" Guillaume asked suspiciously.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Anders asked, as Guillaume took the oars from him. They began to pull away from the tower with all the speed that they could muster.

"Duck!" Anders suddenly yelled. Guillaume obeyed, feeling heat and a sharp rush of air passing overhead, with Anders' voice in the background, weaving a spell. There was a stiff crackle, and then a long and lingering hiss.

"You can look up now," Anders said. "I think we're out of range."

Guillaume cautiously straightened. "You think." He glanced across to the prow of the boat, now encased partially in ice.

"That fireball was a bit close," Anders offered. There was an ominous creak as the boat shuddered under the strain of the ice. At least they were quite close to the shore now.

"Why aren't there more boats coming after us?"

Anders shrugged. "Mages don't really like physical labour," he confided. "That's what templars - or tranquil - are for. They'll get around to it, eventually, but by then we'll be long gone."

Guillaume looked back at the tower. It seemed quiet now; a veritable oasis of silence in the middle of the vast, empty lake. They passed the remnants of the Avvar land bridge as they drew closer to the shore, the oars pulling silkily through still waters.

"Eight," Anders counted off his fingers happily. "I think that must be some kind of record."

"Eight?"

"Escapes. I've officially escaped from the Circle Tower more times than any other mage. They'll be talking about me for years!"

Guillaume sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, Bad Girl762, interesting2125, Metroidvania, Misdirection, mutive, Snafu1000, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision, and to everyone else reading along.
> 
> Next up: the chapter I've been dreading to post since August. o_o Hurray!


	25. Border Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Please note the warnings on this chapter.
> 
> This is definitely a one-off; the dynamic in the follow-up chapter is going to be entirely different.
> 
> **Acknowledgements:**  
> With much gratitude to my beta, oneplusme, for the continued support and tolerance of my obsession, to juri for the early and recurrent feedback and to sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> I have to thank Noah Sila for discussing Morrigan's self-control with me, and prompting the questions: what would it take for her to lose that control, and what would happen? I think the answers came up more in the follow-up passage (chapter 29), but they were also important in framing this scene.
> 
> Thank you to wayfaringpanda, interesting2125, mutive and Asher77 for putting up with all my whinging and flailing. I promise to get over it now. Maybe.
> 
> Thank you also to Snafu1000 for writing part 3 of Stolen Moments, which prompted me to frantically revise this chapter early on. I know most of you are already reading Moments in Time, but if you're not... you should be (f!Cousland/Leliana game novelisation).
> 
> Happy holidays everyone - this will be the last chapter before Christmas, and then posting will resume again probably in the new year. Thank you all for your support over the last nine months or so; it really means a lot to me to know that people out there are reading and enjoying my work. I was hoping to end the year with something fluffier, but well - I hope you'll forgive me.
> 
> **Warnings:**  
> Possible dubious consent, violence, references to rape.

** Recap - Morrigan, Sylvanna - chapter 23 **

[Redcliffe chapel]

Ghostly light: *glimmers*

Morrigan: Surely I am far too sensible to head towards an eerie glowing light without suspecting a trap. No? 'Tis a plot thing? Oh, very well.

Statue of Andraste: *is watching you and your guilty conscience*

Morrigan: Ah, a flashback to the night of my child's conception. Lovely. Can we get on with the maiming now?

Sylvanna: Have you noticed my knife? It's shiny. And dripping. I think it likes you.

Morrigan: Ugh.

Sylvanna: I still haven't forgiven you for raping my best friend, by the way.

Morrigan: And?

Sylvanna: I want you to die. Possibly, I think. Oh, the hell with it- *stabs Morrigan*

Morrigan: Ouch.

Ishantha: OMG, Mum! Mum, wake up!

Morrigan: I truly loathe the level of gore here. 'Tis so distasteful. Isn't there a setting for that?

Ishantha: Mum, I saved you!

Morrigan: Is that so?

Ishantha: Yes. Maybe? I mean yes! Of course!

Morrigan: ...

Ishantha: I totally didn't do the one thing you told me not to do, thereby leading inadvertently to your death! (Which I saved you from, btw. Yeah, that was me.)

Morrigan: ...

Ishantha: It was for the best! Really!

Morrigan: 'Twould be sensible for you to leave. Now.

Ishantha: But but-

Morrigan: Now.

Ishantha: *runs*

Morrigan: So, being an eminently logical and prudent witch, I stab the unconscious warden 'til she is dead. Yes?

Author: No.

Morrigan: I hate everyone.

*Morrigan disapproves -20*

* * *

.

.

.

**Redcliffe**

The stillness before the dawn's first light possessed a magic all of its own.

At least that was what a younger, more foolish Morrigan had once told herself, huddled tightly under her covers, waiting for the awful sounds from her mother's bed to fade away into blessed silence. The lessons from those days were etched deeply inside her, branded into her consciousness with a permanence born of awe and terror.

Morrigan doubted whether her own teachings had been so deeply received by her child.

On this morning, she watched her lover stir soundlessly in their bed. Her hands tensed as she saw Sylvanna's chest rise and fall, betraying nothing more than a deep and dreamless slumber. Gradually she relaxed the death's grip she held upon the dagger in her lap, deliberately forcing herself to settle back into the chair where she had kept her silent vigil.

Sylvanna had slept for the entirety of the night, utterly insensible. Morrigan began to wonder if she would ever wake at all.

.

.

.

"Bring her upstairs," Morrigan croaked, her throat dry as parchment. The two servants (sent by her daughter, she suspected) took Sylvanna's unconscious body between them, dragging her from the chapel floor.

Morrigan followed at a much slower pace, forcing herself to her feet. Blood dripped down the front of her robes, pooling on the stone tiles. She had ceased bleeding some time ago, but must have emptied half her veins before Ishantha had managed to find her.

No one could lose so much blood and survive. She was a walking anomaly, a woman who had been dead and yet was now breathing and moving like a living creature. Rather like that old bat, Wynne, though without the sanctimonious lecturing or the inconvenient spirit.

Morrigan coughed, and swayed on her feet. She clutched the dagger in her hand, as though it were her only anchor to reality, and lurched through the barren hallways of Redcliffe Castle.

One bath later and she was as free of blood as she would ever be, after scrubbing until her skin was an unhealthy shade of pink. She donned clean robes and left her bloodied rags to be burnt; no amount of mending or laundering could ever cleanse the fabric of the memories which had stained it.

Returning to her quarters, she found Sylvanna laid out on the bed, washed and dressed by the servants. Asleep, she looked so deceptively harmless. So blissfully ignorant.

Morrigan curled up in the chair beside her, and settled in to wait.

.

.

.

Dying, all things considered, had been far less illuminating than she had previously anticipated. In fact, the experience had been positively forgettable, with only the scar on her chest, the tenuous memories in her mind and the echo of her daughter's earnest assurances to remind her that it had even occurred.

Living was proving to be far more problematic.

She stared at the dagger in her lap, watching her blurred reflection gazing back at her. It was such a little thing, and so - so mundane. Not even magical, nothing there to explain why - how - such a thing could have found its way past her defences.

She stood and walked to the back of the room, throwing open the window and letting the breeze cool her fevered skin. Strains of music carried through the air, and raised voices; she turned to the bed, wondering if the sounds would prove enlivening.

Sylvanna failed to stir.

Morrigan paced, restless energy coiling within her limbs that threatened to break the perfect stillness of the dawn. There were things she needed to do. Plans she had to make. A daughter she had to find, and imbue with a sense of abject terror.

Instead, she found herself settling back in the chair beside the bed. There was an ache in her chest where the dagger had pierced her, releasing its virulent poison. Her fingers traced over the scar aimlessly, feeling the slight ridge of flesh where it had penetrated her skin, sliding between her ribs and biting deeply into a lung. It was a miracle, really, that she was still alive.

More than anything, Morrigan disliked leaving her fate on the knife's edge of chance.

"Morrigan?"

She startled, fingers tightening over the dagger in her lap. On the bed, Sylvanna sat up awkwardly, sheets clutched to her chest as she blinked in the grey, sombre light that suffused the room. Sylvanna's gaze slowly drifted down from Morrigan's face to the dagger she was holding.

Morrigan waited, dread turning her mouth dry.

Sylvanna frowned, but her eyes soon turned away, crinkling in puzzlement. "What is that... sound?" she asked, the timorous plea of a child longing for safe harbour from her nightmares and visions and the things that went bump in the night.

Morrigan released the breath she had been unaware of holding. "'Tis the Dalish, singing a dirge for their fallen warriors," she said, gesturing towards the open window.

Sylvanna slipped groggily out of bed, her thin shift clinging to her body. Morrigan watched the flash of bare feet as Sylvanna padded over to the window, placing her hands along its frame and leaning her head outside. A slight breeze brushed the hair back from her face, sneaking under the neckline of her shift and ruffling the fabric in small waves.

Sylvanna closed her eyes as she listened. "_In uthenera na revas_," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself and shivering.

Those were the words that Leliana had taught her, Morrigan remembered, words of comfort in her time of need. She wondered if Sylvanna had already forgotten the sight of the bodies, stacked one on top of the other like a child's discarded toys, rotting and indescribably odorous in the heat, or the wardens, supplicating themselves in earnest devotion as Ishantha walked amongst them and stole the last breaths from their willing bodies like a vengeful god.

"Yes," was all she said, too weary to offer a disparaging retort. Even the sound of her own agreement felt unwelcome, interrupting the dirge with her dissonant voice. Morrigan carefully put aside the dagger, rising from her chair in a whisper of silk.

Sylvanna turned as she approached, and Morrigan saw her face blanch in horror, slender hands parting the fabric of Morrigan's robes and revealing the faint scar that marked her chest. "My love," Sylvanna asked, her voice trembling, "what is that?"

Morrigan felt her blood running cold. "You remember nothing?"

Sylvanna's eyes grew large. Morrigan watched them flicking over her neck and décolleté, a frown spilling over the warden's face before she slowly shook her head. Sylvanna's fingertips trailed hesitantly over her scar. The mark had already turned white as though it was an old, familiar wound, received much earlier from some indistinguishable battle. Morrigan shuddered at her touch, remembering the warden's expression as she plunged the blade into her, twisted with vengeance and filled with hatred. She turned away, but Sylvanna moved even closer, reaching out for Morrigan's cheek.

"You... you're crying," Sylvanna said in disbelief. Before Morrigan could protest, Sylvanna leant in and took her face in her hands, mouth warm against her skin. Cool fingertips trailed over Morrigan's cheeks, invoking a shudder as they brushed away hot tears. Everything about her was too soft - the pressure of her touch, the murmured reassurances spilling from her lips, the doe-like look of infinite pity in her eyes.

It would be easy to accept the comfort she offered. Easy to pretend that all was well, that her murderer could kiss away her tears without a second thought.

If Morrigan were any other woman, perhaps that absolution would have been enough.

Morrigan pushed her backwards and Sylvanna stumbled, reaching her hands behind her for support as her body hit the wall. Morrigan pressed her hard against it, her mouth savage, seeking, desperate, as she buried her hands in the warden's hair, holding her in place. Sylvanna faltered for a moment, overcome by Morrigan's vehemence, as the kiss burned away any last trace of sleepy morning haze that might have lingered in either of their minds.

Morrigan's hands raked over Sylvanna's body, leaving faint marks against pale skin. A soft whimper urged her to use her teeth against Sylvanna's throat, and she tightened her grip on her lover's shoulders as she shuddered and squirmed.

This was the woman who had killed her. This was the heart that had sought her demise, the hands that had sharpened the knife.

It was almost laughable.

The bites on Sylvanna's neck stood out starkly with their mottled reds and purples; she raised a hand to them as though to begin a healing spell.

Morrigan grasped her wrist, stopping her before she could cast. She bent her lips to Sylvanna's ear, unexpectedly gentle. "Don't," she murmured. "You look..." she pressed her mouth upon one of the marks, claiming it. Sylvanna moaned, her grip tightening on Morrigan's arms until the pressure was almost painful.

"So..." Morrigan swiped her tongue against the sensitised skin, following it with a tender kiss.

"Beautiful."

Morrigan knew she had been successful when she heard Sylvanna's breath catching in her throat. She slipped a knee in between Sylvanna's legs and then pushed up until she could feel the warmth of her against her thigh. She was bare under her shift, and Morrigan moved her hand until she found what she was seeking, feeling heat and yielding flesh between her fingertips. The elf made an inarticulate little sob, and Morrigan leant her full weight against her until there was no chance of her escaping.

If this was what had happened, that fateful night at Redcliffe during the end of the Blight, what strange and divergent paths their lives might have taken.

"Wait, Morrigan - talk to me," Sylvanna insisted. She was using a wheedling tone that had netted her an army. With that tongue, she had mended friendships, sought justice and coerced demons into submission. (Morrigan had always wondered if there had been some kind of magic at play. Sylvanna's arguments had never been particularly convincing, or even clever, but she brandished words like a weapon, and knights and brigands had fallen before her all the same). Morrigan knew that voice well enough, and she swore that it would not work on her.

Morrigan's teeth found the smooth ridge along one of Sylvanna's ears, and as she nipped at the delicate flesh, her tongue sliding over its hollows, she listened carefully to the rise and fall of Sylvanna's erratic breaths.

"Morrigan, please," Sylvanna murmured amidst gasps. The final word of her entreaty hung accusingly in the air between them, unspoken.

_Stop._

She paused for a moment, idly caressing the tender skin along Sylvanna's inner thigh, feeling the elf shiver, her pulse warm and strong. There was a tension in her body, betraying an instinctual urge to flee that Morrigan intended to deny.

"Do you trust me?"

Sylvanna stared at a point just beyond her lover's face, her lips taking in a ragged breath. "Yes," she admitted, finally turning her eyes to look at Morrigan. "Yes, but-"

"That may prove to be unwise," Morrigan said softly, drawing out the sibilance in her statement. She watched a look of pain flit across Sylvanna's face, followed swiftly by a simmering frustration.

"What did I do to you?" Sylvanna demanded. "Talk to me, Morrigan, tell me-"

Morrigan clamped her free hand over the elf's mouth. "Be still, my love," she murmured, as Sylvanna glared at her resentfully. She slipped her fingers inside again, crooking them just - so, and Sylvanna moaned into her palm, her knees buckling.

Morrigan knew her lover's weak points, the cracks in her defences, how to exploit them and when. She knew just how much force to use to induce both submission and surrender, how to quicken a pulse and how to elicit the sweetest words of supplication from Sylvanna's lips.

But most of all, Morrigan knew that peace was something neither of them truly desired.

She drew near until their noses were touching, Sylvanna's breath tickling her palm, and lovingly placed a chaste kiss upon her cheek. Sylvanna flinched, turning aside as her hands pressed up against Morrigan's shoulders as though willing her to withdraw, a show of reproach at odds with the tantalising fervour of her body.

Satisfied that her lover was unlikely to move, Morrigan slipped her fingertips up in an arc to find Sylvanna's hard peak of tender nerves, the elf snapping back from her touch in affected distress. Morrigan briefly tightened her grasp on Sylvanna's jaw, muffled sounds of protest escaping from around her palm.

"Did you play such games with the templars?" Morrigan asked softly, lowering the hand covering Sylvanna's mouth so that she could answer.

"What?"

"In that cold, lonely tower," Morrigan purred, her lips shaping each word with a deliberate perfection. "Did they hold you as I am holding you now? Did they force themselves upon you, I wonder, or did you submit willingly, bargaining away your body in exchange for empty promises of freedom?"

"I - no - I didn't - it wasn't like that," Sylvanna stammered, flinching away from Morrigan's cold stare. "I-"

"Perhaps those were the circumstances that led you to favour your own sex," Morrigan mused, pressing her words directly into Sylvanna's ear as she felt the elf's hips twist away from her ministrations.

"Why must you be so cruel?" Sylvanna whispered.

"I told you," Morrigan snapped. "I warned you. 'Do not pursue this,' I said. 'Do not follow me.' And yet you heeded me not."

Sylvanna held her breath, and then the words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush. "I don't know what you want from me-"

Truth be told, Morrigan was not entirely certain herself - only that she would not cease until she had emerged the victor from the unspoken hostilities between them.

"'Tis your own fault," she claimed, her nails digging into Sylvanna's arm as she spoke. "You should have listened to me. You should have run whilst you were still able."

Sylvanna stared up at her with horror. "Morrigan, I love-"

She backhanded Sylvanna before she was forced to hear the end of that phrase. A thin trickle of blood seeped from Sylvanna's lip, and she slowly pressed a hand to her face, her fingers trembling. She was close to crying, judging from the glassy sheen in her eyes; it was entirely the reaction that Morrigan did not want to provoke. Even now, the sight of Sylvanna in tears made her feel weak.

"Did you welcome your imprisonment?" Morrigan demanded, hiding the tremor in her voice. "Did it remind you of home? The stone walls, the men at arms, the clawing of demons reaching for you through the Veil..."

"What are you talking about?"

"Fort Drakon," Morrigan elaborated, and was rewarded with a hardening in Sylvanna's eyes. "Did you scream, I wonder? Did you plead with them for your dignity, buying precious time with tricks and platitudes, knowing that the inevitable was yet to come? Did you-"

Morrigan felt the Veil shift around her but she was prepared, a shield in place before she felt the blow from Sylvanna's power striking against it. The spell was clumsy, artless - raw force without the precision of control or focus - a novice's mistake.

"You could do better," Morrigan taunted.

"Stop," Sylvanna said. "Be quiet Morrigan, please," she begged as she clamped her hands over her ears.

That would not do. She could pitch her voice so that Sylvanna would be forced to hear her, no matter how she tried to avoid it, but she loathed to shout when a whisper would be far more effective.

She grabbed the elf by her arm and Sylvanna lashed out with psychic force. The wave of energy burst across her shield, draining her; Morrigan flinched but did not hesitate. She pushed Sylvanna to her knees, twisting her arm behind her until she heard Sylvanna cry out in pain.

"A slight improvement," Morrigan said, hastily scratching out a glyph on the floor as she dug her knee into the small of Sylvanna's back, shoving her downwards. The warden turned, aiming a bolt of ice directly into Morrigan's face. She was heartened to see that the spell possessed real power, even as it fizzled out before connecting, the glyph of neutralisation flaring into life between them.

"You are a heartless shrew," Sylvanna snarled, struggling as Morrigan grabbed a hank of her hair, using her grip to push her flat against the floor.

"Far better to be heartless than heartbroken."

Sylvanna twisted to face her, straining against the fingers entangled in her hair. Something akin to pity crossed the warden's face as she looked up, a hand reaching forwards as if to brush the scar on Morrigan's chest.

She slapped Sylvanna's hand away, tugging her robes closed. "Tell me to stop," Morrigan whispered. "Beg me to stop, and I swear I will release you." Her fingertips drifted down Sylvanna's body, parting her damp thighs and the elf cried out as though in pain.

"No - Morrigan, just-"

"Beg."

"How dare you," Sylvanna said, and the smouldering ire in her eyes was delicious beyond words.

"Beg me," Morrigan instructed again. Her fingers delved in further and slowly began to move in a steady rhythm, her thumb flicking in tiny circles. Sylvanna's body knew this game well enough, barely offering any resistance despite the breathy whimpers that escaped her lips, completely failing to form a coherent phrase.

"Shall I continue then?" Morrigan asked with a smirk. "How very disappointing. I expected more of a challenge from the legendary 'Hero of Ferelden'..."

"Don't," Sylvanna snapped. "Don't call me that."

Morrigan leant down. "Make me stop," she hissed. "The glyph has faded. At this range, a successful spell would be fatal."

"I don't want to hurt you," Sylvanna said wearily, as though recalling the last time she had spoken those words.

"Then you are either a fool or a liar," Morrigan declared, making it abundantly clear which was the more pitiable. She shifted her weight, a spell arcing through her fingertips that caused Sylvanna to writhe beneath her, nails digging into her shoulders.

"Morrigan. Morrigan-"

"You must have offered more resistance than this to your unwanted lovers, did you not?" Morrigan asked. "I have seen your scars." She brought her free hand to Sylvanna's face, her thumb running across the elf's jaw. Sylvanna stiffened, shrinking back as though she could disappear into the floor, her eyes staring right through Morrigan as though she was seeing someone else. "I never did learn how you acquired this one..."

Morrigan scraped her fingernails along the thin lines of scar tissue marring Sylvanna's cheek, pressing down firmly enough to leave a mark as she followed the lines down to the corner of her mouth.

In that moment, she felt Sylvanna breaking.

Sharp nails dug into Morrigan's back, drawing blood; even if she wanted to, she could scarcely withdraw. Sylvanna's body entrapped her, the elf wracked with shudders; Morrigan found herself feeling unexpectedly magnanimous. She murmured a number of pithy statements, soothing nothings, gently cradling Sylvanna as her lover helplessly struggled. She was unsure if Sylvanna could even hear her over the wretched sobs that were emerging from her throat.

When Sylvanna regained her voice, she began to curse, a half-inaudible string of expletives tumbling off her tongue. Morrigan thought, with some detachment, that she could make out the words 'bitch' and 'shem' amongst the less offensive terms, and idly wondered if she had gone too far.

The torrent of words eventually slowed to a trickle, as Sylvanna clumsily pushed Morrigan away from her and began to cry: ugly, helpless noises that she made no effort to conceal. Morrigan ran her fingertips along Sylvanna's body, gently tucking a limp strand of hair behind the elf's ear.

"What - what do you want?" Sylvanna asked, her voice breaking through her tears. "For pity's sake, just tell me."

Morrigan drew her into the circle of her arms, finding her unresisting. She tilted Sylvanna's face towards her and kissed that bruised mouth, tasting the traces of blood and salt that had reached the corners of her lips.

_She would do anything for you,_ a voice purred inside Morrigan's mind. It sounded disturbingly similar to her mother's. _You could take her. You could devour her whole, and she would submit with a smile. Probably even enjoy it, the slattern._

Morrigan allowed her hands to drift downwards, cupping Sylvanna's hips as she kissed the warm hollow of her neck, feeling the shudder as she touched the soft, defenceless point of skin just below her pointed ear. She could hear Sylvanna's pulse flowing through her body, feel the warmth of her blood racing through her veins. She imagined calling to that blood, ripping it out to feed her unbearable hunger.

Sylvanna gazed at her with a complete lack of artifice, as if she could see through to the monster Morrigan had become and was not afraid. "Tell me," Sylvanna demanded, anger in her voice, her face blotchy with tears. "Tell me what you need." Her lips parted slightly as though in surrender, and the untamed desire rose in Morrigan again, the deadly voice that told her she needed this, that she deserved this, that she could drain every last drop of blood from the warden's body and that Sylvanna would use her final breaths to beg her not to stop.

Morrigan needed to _kill._

The revelation was like a cold shock to her system, and she pushed herself away with a clumsiness that spoke volumes about her shattered state of equilibrium. Sylvanna gazed up, her eyes filled with accusations. Still, she did not rise to follow, nor bid her to return, and for those small mercies Morrigan was endlessly grateful. Behind her, she could hear the sound of Sylvanna's blood still thrumming with life (and part of her whispered that she could go back, that she could still give in to her urges, and just what was she waiting for?)

The words of the transformation came to her haltingly, her tongue feeling thick and slow, but at last the magic took hold and freed her from the darkest reaches of her temptation. The air shimmered around her, the spell bending and shaping her. Within her new body, her clothes slipped free and then she was airborne, the mistress of herself once more, unfettered and wild.

The hawk spread her powerful wings, catching the rising rays of the sun as she climbed higher and higher into the open sky.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sylvanna quotes from Leliana's Song: "in waking sleep is freedom".
> 
> With many thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, Auroraas, Misdirection, Mm-Burnt-Toast-mM, mutive, PhoenixFawkes310, Spikesagitta, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision.
> 
> Obviously I have strong feelings about what I wanted to achieve in this chapter. I'd really, really appreciate any concrit or feedback, especially since I haven't written something like this before, and I accept anonymous reviews. In particular:
> 
> \- How did it make you feel? If you hated it, which aspects and why?  
> \- Did it come across as OOC?  
> \- Who do you sympathise with the most, if anyone?
> 
> Thanks guys in advance.


	26. Trials of the Father

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> Warning for references to rape.

** Recap - Alistair - chapter 18 **

[The Fade]

Sylvanna: We used to be friends. Can't I ask you a favour?

Alistair: Do you really think I can look past the fact that you're consorting with my rapist and mutant daughter to steal my country?

Sylvanna: When you put it like that...

Alistair: The life you forced me into sucks. To date:

Alistair: You asked me to marry Anora, so I did. Then Eamon poisoned her. Sure, I was sad for a while, but then this hot Cousland chick took an interest in the Most Eligible Widower in Ferelden, and I was like, score! I took out a hit on Eamon, 'cause Zev told me to. And Elissa had a baby! And everything was great!

Alistair: Then a dumb plot device killed off my second wife and left me in charge of the whole country.

Sylvanna: Okay, so you're morose and brooding, I get it. What about peace? Don't you want that? It's pretty popular this season.

Alistair: At the cost of turning everyone into brainwashed zombies? I'll pass.

Sylvanna: Oh, come on. For old times' sake? What do you think these flashbacks are for, decoration?

Alistair: Yeah... not interested.

Sylvanna: But you could relinquish that crown you never wanted! You'll never have to sit in another meeting again!

Alistair: Really?

Sylvanna: Yes! *sotto voce* I'll throw in a free set of action figures if you sign on the dotted line within the next five minutes!

Alistair: I'm the King of Ferelden. Don't you think I already own a complete set?

Sylvanna: ...Oh. So this is it then?

Alistair: Yup. It's not you, it's me. Wait, who am I kidding? It's all you.

Sylvanna: Pig.

Alistair: Elf.

Sylvanna: I gave your Order the best years of my life, Alistair Theirin!

Alistair: I only liked you because you were the protagonist!

Sylvanna: I only laughed at your jokes because it annoyed Morrigan!

Alistair: I'm happy you're leaving!

Sylvanna: So am I!

Alistair: Fine!

Sylvanna: Fine!

Alistair: ...Let's just get on with this, shall we?

* * *

.

.

.

**Denerim**

"This is your fault."

Alistair sat back in his chair, one hand propped under his chin. "And how do you determine that, Your Grace?"

The Grand Cleric of Ferelden glared at him, clasping her hands firmly together in her lap, her lined face mottled with rage. Given the vehemence of her tone, he wouldn't be surprised if she started to launch spittle at him as she spoke. She had been at him for what - over an hour now? Alistair glanced surreptitiously out of a window. No, it was still light. It had only felt like an hour.

This was the whole reason he had chancellors and generals, warden-commanders and the rest: so that he wouldn't have to deal with angry people who seemed determined to blame him for everything that happened within his kingdom. Crop failure? Poor foresight on the part of the Crown. Potential qunari invasion? The king's men need to be more vigilant! Old God demon-spawn-witchy-mage-killing-machine slaughtering everything in sight? Why, clearly the King of Ferelden had to be responsible for that!

The worst thing, the very worst thing, was that Alistair actually was responsible, to a degree. Sure, Morrigan had magically done something to him... but still. Her daughter, that thing, that creature was part of him, or at least had been begotten from him. That made him responsible. Didn't it?

"You restricted our numbers," the priestess said. "You should have imposed no quota on the Orlesian templars, roused the Bannorn, forced each arl and bann to lend aid-"

Alistair scoffed. "And achieve what? We might as well have sent out a welcoming party to Seheron - 'look over here, our shores are defenceless! Come and attack us, please!' Our losses at Redcliffe were not due to lack of men, but lack of knowledge. Such devastation-"

"Was due to your grey wardens. They betrayed the Chantry! Turned on their fellow men and women!"

Alistair grimaced. "Madam, a few incoherent stories from survivors doubtless suffering from shock and grief can hardly be considered reliable-"

"Don't you dare 'madam' me, Alistair Theirin," the woman snapped, all claws and sharp edges. "I advised your father when you were no more than a child! I crowned your brother, Maker rest his soul, long before the country had ever heard of your name. If you were only half as pious as Cailan was-"

Cailan the philanderer? Cailan the boy at arms? Faith alone did not lead armies, nor could it administer a country. Faith could offer little comfort to a child newly given to the Chantry, convinced that he meant nothing to anyone.

"And how would you have me demonstrate such 'piety', Your Grace? Immolate a few innocent women in the streets? Call for a public execution of anyone accused of worshipping the Old God?"

The old woman stiffened, her knuckles turning white in her lap. The temperature in the room dropped as if a mage had unleashed a blizzard over them, and Alistair wondered how far he could push before he irrevocably ruined his relationship with the Chantry.

"Vile rumours and vicious lies, spread by enemies of the Maker," the grand cleric said, her voice low. "You would do well not to listen to such outrageous gossip, Sire."

Alistair watched the way her eyes failed to flinch under his gaze. "It's odd how rumours spring up, isn't it, Your Grace? Still, no one would miss a few initiates. I suppose it's the Maker's will if some poor girl catches pneumonia and dies in the height of summer. What was her name?" He shuffled some papers on his desk, his gaze lowering for a fraction of a second. "Oh, here it is - Nerys."

To her credit, the grand cleric failed to so much as flinch. "We are not miracle workers, Sire. From time to time, illness and misfortune find even the strongest of us, despite our best efforts. But of course, you must be well aware of that fact."

Alistair's jaw tensed. Anora had been in her thirties when she died - the same as Elissa.

Even if he had proof that the Chantry was taking religious intolerance to extremes - and proof was by no means forthcoming - what would that truly achieve? Many still believed in Andraste's vision, and to a lesser extent, the Maker's grace. Despite their losses at Redcliffe, templars were a sizable force in the country, seen as holy crusaders and protectors of the people. No one would suspect anything amiss if a few poor sods happened to spout their faith too loudly and were trodden beneath the iron heel of the divine's hegemony.

The grand cleric straightened in her chair, wrinkled lips pursed into a frown. "The divine will want a full report," she said. "If you wish to keep the influx of foreign forces to a minimum, you will need to reassure Her Perfection that Ferelden has this threat well and truly under control."

A report. As if Her Perfection didn't have spies enough to send her all the reports that she could possibly want. "In a fortnight's time," Alistair said. "We need to round up the survivors and compare their experiences, find out a way to defeat this being."

The grand cleric sniffed derisively. "One fortnight. You'd best hope that your reports are water-tight, Your Majesty, or the Chantry will be forced to take these matters out of your hands."

As far as he could see, they already had.

.

.

.

"Are you sure?" Alistair asked, for what was probably the umpteenth time.

The templar in front of him shifted her weight, plate armour clanking. "I'm certain, Sire," she said. "The grey wardens betrayed us. By their command, both Orlesian and Fereldan templars alike were slaughtered."

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where are they now?"

"Dead."

"What, all of them?"

"I believe so, Sire."

Alistair massaged his temples. "Good grief." He stared hard at the whorls of wood grain on his desk, the dark narrow lines, closely spaced, and the tiny scratches marring its surface. The rest of his desk was covered by paperwork, haphazardly tottering in piles like a crew of drunken sailors leaning in against each other.

"There's nothing more you can tell me? Anything at all?"

"I've told you everything I know," the templar said. Alistair found his gaze drifting of its own accord to her short blonde hair, smoothed back in a sensible ponytail, and flicking briefly over the form-fitting lines of her breastplate. Maker, why didn't they have specimens like her at the Chantry when he was undergoing his training? It would have made life so much more bearable.

"The full account is detailed in my report," the templar said, gesturing towards a few thin sheets of parchment resting atop the immense pile of paperwork before him.

"Wonderful," Alistair drawled. "Very well, I suppose. Dismissed."

She bowed to him, arms crossed over her heart, and turned on her heel, the door clicking shut behind her. Beside the king, Chancellor Hernays made a note in his impeccably neat handwriting.

"That's the last of them, Sire."

Alistair grimaced. "Not a single warden? Not even a mage? Not one?"

"Apparently not. It would seem that they all perished in the uprising," the chancellor said, sounding bored.

Alistair tapped his fingers against the desk. His nails made a hollow sound, clicking against the dark wood.

The nightmares were getting worse again. Darkspawn, sometimes - darkspawn he could deal with. They were to be expected, could be shrugged off with a laugh and a careful measuring of the years. Darkspawn were one thing.

The Archdemon was another.

"Your next audience with the grand cleric is tomorrow," Hernays said. "Have you reached a decision on how to manage the divine?"

Alistair folded his hands on top of the desk. "I'll have one by tomorrow," he promised.

The frown that Hernays directed his way was all too predictable. "Sire, I must strongly recommend against any solution that may further damage Ferelden's position with the Chantry," he said. "As we've discussed, clearly the most prudent option is-"

"Enough," Alistair snapped. At the chancellor's carefully blank face, he waved a hand in apology. "Let's reconvene tomorrow morning and discuss this then, shall we?"

Hernays made a slight bow. "Very well," he said with a world-weary sigh. The door closed quietly behind him.

Alistair flipped through the sparse few pages of the templar's report in a desultory fashion. It contained no more than what she had told him - use of ancient magics, the wardens' betrayal - and yet he scanned its words hungrily, like a drowning man groping for salvation.

Old Gods and mages and demons. And then, on their way back to Denerim, the remaining templars had been harassed by stray bands of darkspawn. What next? A qunari invasion?

"What does she want?" he asked aloud. The question verged on blasphemy. Better to think of her - to think of it - as some formless entity, some nameless evil. She would be what - perhaps nine years old now? Would she have his eyes? His taste in terrible jokes? His fondness for cheese?

Alistair rose, leaving the papers strewn across his desk, and dimmed the light with a wave of his hand. Anora had commissioned enchanted lamps for their private quarters, after she found her sight suffering under the glare of candles. He had thought it an extravagant waste at the time, but he was soon forced to concede that she had been right.

He locked the door behind him as he left the study. Heading down the hallway, his feet followed a well-trodden path, almost silent against the plush rugs. The night guardsmen saluted him as he passed, and he nodded distractedly to them in return. Once, before Elissa died, he had known their names and faces. Those days seemed distant now, as though they had been dreams woven by some malevolent Fade spirit.

The nursery was quiet at this late hour, the silence only broken by the snoring nursemaid in the adjoining room. Alistair tiptoed carefully through the dark, mindful of his steps.

A thin sliver of light filtered through the window, falling upon the rounded face of his daughter. She shifted in her sleep, her thumb hovering close to her mouth. Alistair watched her breathing, noting the way her eyelashes flickered slightly as she slumbered.

Perhaps he was wrong in not giving her a second mother. Maker knew there were enough harpies in Ferelden trying to fob their daughters onto him, never mind that his last two queens had both ended up in early graves. Perhaps he was cursed. Alistair Theirin, lady-killer. Too bad it hadn't worked for the one woman he sorely wished dead.

"I love you," he whispered, watching his daughter yawn in her sleep. "I hope you know that. You do know that, right?"

He carefully brushed a curl of blonde hair from her face. She looked nothing like her mother, which was a shame - Elissa had been dark-haired, tall, with a strong nose and wide lips. Her child, on the other hand, clearly took after the Theirin line.

Having a family had meant everything to Elissa, and not only because of the succession. (There was that, too; Alistair was not so callow as to ignore the needs of the country.) Having lost her entire family during the Blight, barring her elder brother, he knew what starting over had meant for her. For them.

Now, she would never be able to guide her daughter as she matured into a strong, capable young woman. Never help her wield her first sword. Never watch her bond with her first mabari. Never (and here Alistair fought a flicker of panic) conspire to have her married to a sensible and kind young man.

His daughter had servants and the best tutors, of course, even at the tender age of three, but he was bitterly conscious that it simply wasn't enough. How could it be? No one could replace Elissa, but her child was so young, she scarcely remembered her mother. If Alistair married again, his new wife could provide something to Elissa's daughter that he could not.

Maybe, once all of this was over, he would allow Hernays to provide him with a list of candidates...

Lost in thought, Alistair hardly recognised the sick feeling in his gut until it was almost overwhelming. He straightened, one hand automatically reaching for the sword that wasn't there.

"Papa?" his daughter whispered, eyes luminous in the dark. Fully awake, she leaned towards him, small fingers grasping.

Alistair silently cursed. "Here, darling," he said with false cheer, scooping her up. A stuffed mabari toy dangled from her fist, the ears and snout frayed from having been lovingly chewed upon.

There was a sword in his study, and another two in his bedroom. A few guards were probably hovering just outside the door. If he yelled, they would be here within the instant. Still, there were several ways to disable an intruder without a weapon; he shifted his daughter to his off-hand, balancing her against his shoulder.

"I'm hungry," she complained, squirming.

"We'll see Cook in a minute," he said. "We're playing a game. A secret game."

She tilted her head to the side, her forehead wrinkled into a frown. "What game?"

Alistair cleared his throat, his voice raising in volume. "It's called 'find the warden'." His eyes scanned the room, taking in the deep shadows in the corners, the unruffled stillness of the bed. From the adjoining chamber, the nursemaid continued to snore.

His daughter tweaked his nose. "I win!"

"Well done," he said absently. A puff of air brushed the nape of his neck, and he spun so sharply that his child clung to him and shrieked.

"You?" Alistair asked, his eyes widening. He frowned, his arm tightening around his daughter.

"You're supposed to be dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers for your thoughts on the previous chapter: Asher77, Auroraas, IamWithinTemptation,interesting2125, J. E. Talveran, Misdirection, mutive, Noah Sila, Ondjage, Snafu1000, Spikesagitta, Victorita9, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision. Happy new year, everyone ^_^


	27. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> Warning for what would now be considered emotional child abuse (exposure to violence).

** Recap - Morrigan - chapter 25 **

[Redcliffe castle]

Morrigan: Somehow, being murdered and realising that I have absolutely no control over anyone has put me in a Really Bad Mood.

Sylvanna: What is this 'murder' of which you speak?

Morrigan: Allow me to project my self-loathing onto you. I trust you have no objections?

Sylvanna: I guess not... Wait, shouldn't we have a safe word?

Morrigan: A what?

Sylvanna: Never mind.

[_et cetera_]

Morrigan: 'Tis a curious feeling... could it be remorse?

Sylvanna: Probably just something you ate.

Morrigan: *sighs*

Sylvanna: This was so not what I wanted from this chapter. What happened to using my POV? It would've been cute!

Morrigan: *reading discarded chapter summary* 'With the backing music of a Dalish dirge, Sylvanna demonstrates the magical healing power of slow dancing and adorable kisses, followed by a snuggly fade to black.' Who writes this drivel?

Sylvanna: What do you want, then?

Morrigan: How should I know? I'm the emotionally repressed one, apparently.

Sylvanna: Ugh. You have Mummy issues.

Morrigan: And now I shall pretend I did not hear that.

Hawk!Morrigan: *leaves*

Sylvanna: I knew I should've romanced Leliana.

Leliana Fangirls: THIS.

* * *

.

.

.

**Southwestern Ferelden**

Morrigan rode the thermals south from Redcliffe, her wings beating lazily through the endless sky. Far below, the world lay flat in miniature: the pale canopies of Dalish aravels amidst dense forest; the choking clouds of ash where humans were burning their dead, templars and soldiers alike. Across the land, silvery lines of water trailed like spilt lyrium, or like old scars etched deep and pale.

Her first kill was quick, but messy - a grain-fattened pigeon, caught on the wing. She took it high upon a cliffside to feed, beak tearing at succulent red flesh, talons gripping mercilessly around feathered limbs as she stabbed and tore the tender meat, raising her throat to swallow. With each mouthful, the memory of bare skin beneath her and warm breaths against her cheek dimmed, fading like a distant dream.

She travelled while the sun was still high, the steady beat of her flight echoed by the sound of her heart. The miles vanished with each stroke of her wings, bright greens and ochres merging into a patchwork of shades, the monotony of the landscape broken only by the brown-grey flicker of other birds. She watched them flitting beneath her, small and quick, but oh - not quick enough - and indulged her hunger in a rapturous gluttony, spilling crimson onto the dark earth.

On the fourth day, she crossed an invisible border, and found herself home.

.

.

.

Morrigan landed in a rush of feathers, her wings scything through the air, sharp talons outstretched. Perched safely on the ground, she changed back to human form, feathers transforming into flesh, bones elongating and pressing painfully against too-tight skin. She rose slowly from her crouch, limbs unfurling as she breathed in the damp air.

Everything was as she remembered.

The ramshackle shape of Flemeth's hut loomed before her, worn in its dotage, but seemingly untouched by darkspawn or scavengers. She stood still for long moments, her gaze wandering over the thatched roof, the wooden slats, the slightly crooked door with the hinges that always squeaked.

The sounds of the Wilds enveloped her as she stood, utterly naked, her arms wrapped around herself for warmth. It had been too long, it seemed, her skin too accustomed to being clothed for her to feel comfortable in the cool autumn air.

If she closed her eyes, she could hear the sound of her mother's off-key humming, the lapping of water at the edge of the stream. The smells of cooking would be wafting on the breeze, and if she was very lucky, perhaps they would have some sport...

.

.

.

It was nigh impossible to remove dried blood from linen. Morrigan scrubbed furiously at the wretched spot until her arms were sore, before dunking the sheet back into the stream. Letting the sodden cloth drop from her fingers, she straightened, rubbing a fist against her aching back. Mother would know some sort of trick to get the blasted stain out - maybe, if she was in one of her good moods, she might even deign to share such knowledge-

"You there. Child!"

Morrigan looked up to see three armoured men standing before her, their visors raised in deference to the suffocating swamp air. Ser Vigilant, Ser Bored and Ser Pious, she decided with a glance, before lowering her eyes in assumed humility.

"Is your father home?" Ser Pious asked her, not unkindly. Behind him, Ser Vigilant shifted his weight from foot to foot, his gaze scanning their surroundings uneasily.

"No, Sers," Morrigan lisped, grinning to show the gap where her milk teeth had fallen out. She picked up the sheet again, bundling it still wet into her arms, and noted how Ser Bored's gaze wandered lazily from the tree line to her face. She wrung out the linen, and then pointed in the direction of the house. "My mother is. Have you business with her?"

Ser Pious snatched up the opening with relief. "We do. If you would be so kind to take us there?"

She nodded shyly, her hair falling over her face, and scrambled out of the stream, scraping her feet along the grass to rid them of mud. The templars parted to allow her to take the lead before closing in behind her, their hands upon the hilts of their swords.

Morrigan's heart skipped with elation all the way back to the house.

.

.

.

"I'm afraid my husband is not expected here before nightfall."

From her position peering in through a crack in the back door, Morrigan saw that her mother had put on her pretty face, dark hair cascading loose over bared shoulders. Nothing good ever came when she wore that face, and so Morrigan was greatly relieved that her full attention was focused on the templars in her parlour.

A hushed discussion began between Ser Vigilant and Ser Pious. Her mother cleared her throat, and the templars glanced at her, all of them wary. "Good Sers," her mother said, eyes glittering, "perhaps you will be so kind to wait for him upstairs? 'Twill not be long, I suspect, and there you may wash your faces and rest your weary feet."

The templars looked at each other, and then Ser Pious nodded. "That is most kind of you, Mistress." Their boots made a clanking noise as they trudged up the narrow staircase, wood creaking in protest with every step.

Her mother caught her peeping through the door and Morrigan flinched, certain that she would be reprimanded. To her relief, her mother only tapped a finger to her lips and winked, before following the men upstairs.

.

.

.

Having laid the sheet to dry upon the clean grass at the front of the house, she was free to play. Her fingers trailed pictures in the mud as she lay belly-down in the dirt, her feet kicked up in the air behind her. It was curious that the templars had been searching for a man. What would it be like to have someone to call 'father', to actually be waiting for him to come home? Morrigan snorted. One adult in her life was quite enough-

To her credit, she barely flinched when the screaming started, though her fingertip paused momentarily as she dragged it through the soil. Humming under her breath to drown out the noise, she continued with her scribblings, wiping them out and drawing over them again when she ran out of free space.

After a while, the screams trailed off and she ceased humming, deafened by the sudden silence. Something thumped hard against the front door, and she scrambled to her feet, dirt crumbling off the front of her pinafore.

A trickle of red seeped from under the door frame, dripping onto the grass, and then the door slowly creaked open. A severed head rolled out, stopping at her feet. She stared down, fascinated, at the face of Ser Pious, his blue eyes open and unblinking. There were burn marks at his neck above the point where it had been separated from his body, and blood ran profusely from the wound, pooling at her toes.

She bent down and poked at his cheek experimentally, and then pried open his mouth, searching for gold teeth. Nothing. She rocked back on her heels, disappointed.

Mother should have led them outside. What had she been thinking? Now the whole house would have to be scrubbed clean again, and even then the smell of gutted templar would probably linger for weeks.

Morrigan sat down and returned to her game, studiously ignoring the clamour of armoured bodies thumping down a flight of stairs, followed by a door opening and closing. Next came a series of wet, muffled noises, and the familiar rise and fall of her mother's voice, the words indistinguishable. By the time silence descended once more, it was growing dark.

She eventually rose to the sound of her mother calling her in for supper, secretly glad not to be left outside in the gathering dusk with only Ser Pious' vacant, fly-encrusted stare for company.

.

.

.

Morrigan shook her head, banishing the memory from her mind. She glanced down at her feet, as though expecting to see a templar's face still staring back at her, or to be confronted by blood pooling red into the dirt.

Rolling her eyes at her own useless morbidity, she took a deep breath, releasing it slowly. She watched her hand reaching for the door handle, feeling its cold, heavy weight beneath her palm, the coarse texture where rust had begun to pit and eat away at the metal. Her grip tightened, and she pushed it open.

Dust rose at her approach, sending her into a fit of coughing. Light seeped through gaps in the slats and poured in through the doorway, but still she summoned a wisp, the greenish glow lending the impression that she was moving through still water.

Others had been here, she was sure of it. Not scavengers - it looked too neat, the furniture still intact, the floor still clean, albeit dusty - but there was an odd taste in the air, the sense of having been disturbed. Or perhaps it was simply her over-active imagination, her irrational fear of turning the next corner and finding her mother staring back at her. Morrigan shuddered at the thought, pushing away the image of lank, greasy hair, uncombed and unwashed, of sunken eyes burning with power, or madness, or both.

A slight breeze pressed against the door, moving it open with a slow, languorous creak. Morrigan spun on her heel, one hand clenched, but was met only with the mocking voice of the wind. The leaves crept in through the door, already beginning to turn - bi-coloured, pale gold merging into green.

She would not let herself be startled by every tiny sound. She had come here for - for a reason, surely. _What reason?_ a voice mocked her, coiling inside her mind. _To see whether the old crone was truly dead? To reminisce about a childhood long gone?_

Morrigan ran her hand over a table, staring at the thick coating of dust that came away, falling to the ground as she rubbed her fingertips together. If she closed her eyes now, she would remember everything: the smell of stew bubbling over the fireplace, the tang of old blood from her mother's knife. The cadence of Flemeth's voice, giving her a new title, a new destiny. No. She had to focus-

.

.

.

"And you believe that the Blight will be ended so soon?" Morrigan asked, if only to have a safe question to raise, the others trapped at the back of her throat by the weight of their implausibility. "Past Blights took decades and the combined efforts of several nations before they were ended-"

"I know my history, girl." Flemeth calmly sat before her, hands busy with a hook and wool. The piece of crochet seemed to have far too many limbs attached, if it was intended for something the size of a newborn - but then again, her mother had never been terribly adroit at the maternal arts, so why should she start now? "Do not worry yourself. You will still be young and beautiful when the archdemon falls," she said, with a wry twist to her mouth.

"If I have this - this child," Morrigan stumbled over the word, avoiding others that seemed too vast and unreal - Old God, spirit, abomination - "what do you hope to gain from it?"

Flemeth peered at her over her work, seemingly amused, judging by the slight curve to her otherwise hollow cheeks. "The same things as you, I trust. Power. Influence. A grandchild who will change the course of our world." She spread her hands, making a dismissive gesture. "Or perhaps it is simply time to have an infant in the house. Grown daughters are not nearly so malleable."

"This is why you saved them." Morrigan swallowed and ceased her pacing. She glanced down at the unconscious grey wardens, both bandaged up like parcels of meat at a market. "But why these two? Surely the woman is worthless, if a grey warden is needed to father the child-"

Flemeth snorted, and her lips curled back to reveal a toothy grin. "How single-minded of you. That dedication will avail you naught if none are left to slay the archdemon." Her long nails clicked against the wooden hook as she looped yarn around her finger, threading it through. "I suspect you will need all the help you can bear."

Morrigan glanced down at the human warden. He muttered in his sleep and pawed at the air like a dog, his face twisted in the grip of nightmares. The very last male warden in Ferelden, and she was to seduce him, to allow him to impregnate her? The very idea seemed patently absurd.

"Our first meeting scarcely filled me with admiration," she said. That aside, he was not so unattractive, if she forced herself to be honest; any scion of his had a reasonable chance of being pleasing to the eye, at the very least. Morrigan examined the thought and found that the prospect of becoming a mother was perhaps not entirely without merit.

Flemeth sniffed. "He will do well enough. Silence now, girl - he wakes."

True to her mother's words, the grey warden began to stir, a groan escaping his lips. Morrigan watched with distaste as he sat up and stared at her blearily.

"You're the - the sneaky witch-thief!" he exclaimed, rubbing at his eyes.

She set her jaw, drawing back her shoulders and icing her voice with the haughtiest air she could manage. "My name," she said, "is Morrigan."

Placing her hands on her hips, she watched his confused mind working over the statement, all the while blinking at her like some gawking bumpkin. Behind her, Flemeth's quiet chuckle completely ruined her hauteur.

"Duncan - where are the rest of the grey wardens?" he asked, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Why are we here? Did they see the beacon?"

Flemeth interrupted before she could speak. "In good time, my lad." She turned her head. "Girl, take our guest outside and answer his questions."

"Wait." He stood, shaking, reaching towards the wall for support. His gaze moved past Morrigan, towards the elf who had not woken. "Is she-"

"She will live," Flemeth said curtly. "Now out you go, the both of you."

Morrigan rolled her eyes, not pausing to wait for the grey warden to don his shirt before leaving the house. She passed time by pacing irritably by the water's edge, gazing down briefly at her wavering reflection through the reeds.

The soul of an Old God had to be a thing of great power, opening up an entire realm of possibilities. Would such a being be biddable enough, she wondered? What if the ritual failed, and she was left with some mutated creature, part human, part darkspawn - or worse yet, what if the soul passed into her and her body proved too weak to contain it, expiring upon contact?

The metallic rustle of splint mail interrupted her flow of thoughts, and she waited, her back to the house, until he was almost upon her. She snuck a look from the corner of her eye; fully armoured, he looked less like a boy, and more like a grey warden. The picture was only somewhat spoilt by the disturbing vulnerability in his face, raw with fear and distress.

"What happened to the other wardens?" he asked, tense with restless energy. If he was not careful, he would burst her mother's stitches, and Flemeth would be most displeased. "Did Loghain charge in time? And what of King Cailan and his men?"

Morrigan sighed. "One question at a time, please." She folded her arms over her chest, gory details already leaping out in her mind. Withholding nothing, she arranged the facts for maximum impact - the deaths of the grey wardens, Teyrn Loghain's betrayal, the utter annihilation of the king's army. His reaction was all too predictable, his voice raising in anger and disbelief as she watched him and smirked. One thing was certain, she thought, observing the way his eyes glistened most suspiciously as his rage subsided into dull despair and grief.

Her quiet little life in the Wilds was about to become very, very interesting.

.

.

.

Morrigan moved around the room like a ghost, brushing the spines of books with her fingertips without seeing them, her footsteps finding their way around the furniture by memory. Her gaze darted to each corner, from the fireplace to the rickety stairs, but all was perfectly silent, still. She leant over and turned down an old coverlet, coughing in the resultant haze of dust, and crawled into the bed that had once been hers, drawing her knees tightly to her chest.

She should not have come here.

She had heard the many stories, of course, that the Chasind told of Flemeth and her daughters, witches who could kill a man by fear alone. She snorted. There was some truth in that, she admitted grudgingly, though not as much as she would have liked.

As a child, she had occasionally wondered when she might stumble across her sisters. In her weaker moments, when life with Flemeth became absolutely intolerable, she had imagined one of her siblings creeping up to find her and snatch her away from under their mother's nose. Her sister would have recognised at once Morrigan's aptitude and resourcefulness, and together they would have become... mutual allies, perhaps.

Even then, she had known the fantasy for what it was, and no amount of wishing had ever made it less foolish.

Morrigan pressed her back to the wall, and closed her eyes.

Learning the true reason why she had never seen another of Flemeth's daughters - why it was always just the two of them, mother and child, without room for any other - had made her daydreams seem even more ridiculous. If the Blight had not come in her lifetime, it would have been another foolish girl undertaking Flemeth's request, seeking out the Old God, trapping its soul into mortal form. Morrigan was nothing special. She was not unique, in any sense of the word; merely another body in a long line of bodies that could be traced back for centuries.

She unfurled herself, stretching out a cramp in her neck. She stepped one leg out of the bed, and then the other, every movement deliberate, cautious, as though not to stir the spirits that still lurked within the house. A shimmer of gold embossing caught her eye, and she took a slim book from one of the shelves, shaking off the fringe of cobwebs that clung to its pages.

She opened the tome, and the musty smell of old parchment assaulted her nose, underlaid with scents of glue and twine. Her fingertip traced over the line of text, the crawling black letters still crisp and legible as the day that they had been penned.

_The one who repents, who has faith,_  
_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,_  
_She shall know true peace._

On the opposite page, Andraste knelt before an altar, her hands clasped before her. Light spilled in from above, the illustration rendered in bright, garish colours and flourishes of gold leaf. Morrigan's hand hovered over the page, and she touched it briefly, tracing the outline of Andraste's face. Flemeth had never permitted her to handle such an expensive tome, guarding it with a surprising degree of mania. It was of no real worth, after all, containing no spells, no magical incantations or even recipes for brewing poisons or poultices. Filled to the brim with saint days and psalms, it had seemed oddly out of place on her mother's shelves.

Morrigan wondered if the true reason was deceptively simple. After all, the unbeliever's rage against the faithful was borne of envy as much as disgust. Did Flemeth suffer from something as human as jealousy? In moments of weakness, even Morrigan had been forced to admit that blissful ignorance and blind obedience could hold some appeal. Was it not simpler to trust in another's hands, to believe that there was some pattern, some grand destiny? Did Flemeth disavow love so strongly because somewhere, some part of her still desired acceptance?

Morrigan's fingers closed around the corner of the illustrated page, and then she slowly tore the sheet in two, bisecting Andraste's body. Another page swiftly followed, and then another, the pieces fluttering to the floor in a riot of colour, like the wings of butterflies.

Crumpling the ruined pages beneath her feet, she turned her attention back to the house at large. It took her some time to to unravel all the wards she could reach, destroying them piece by piece with a focus and precision that would have made her mother proud. After that, the rest came easily - a simple summoning spell, manifesting itself in a thin, oily sheen that coated the walls, the floor, the priceless scraps of parchment on the floor. A limp tendril of hair fell across her face and she jerked her head sharply to toss it out of the way, baring her teeth in what could have been considered a smile.

Outside, it had turned dark, creating the perfect canvas. She walked until she was some distance away, placing a good portion of the wet, marshy ground in between herself and the house. In the distance, a wolf howled; a long, lonely sound. Morrigan fought the urge to throw her head back and respond in kind, instead closing her eyes briefly as she gathered power beneath her skin. Magic flowed through her limbs, heat building in her palms until the sensation became painful, until it bubbled up like bile at the back of her throat. She opened her mouth, and the words of the spell came out like a song.

A column of fire emerged over the house, glaring orange against the dark sky. The flames ate hungrily through the thatched roof and the wooden beams, flaring up suddenly as they came into contact with the grease. Smoke billowed upwards in vast plumes, a grey cloud choking out the stars. There was a thunderous crash as the fire spread; the shutters blew outwards as what remained of the house blackened and turned to ash.

She forced herself to continue watching until the whole shack was nothing more than rubble, its secrets lost for eternity. She breathed out, a long, deep breath, the air tight in her lungs. It was foolish to think this anything more than a futile gesture, she reminded herself. She could hardly change the past, or truly anticipate her mother's motives, and yet-

She blinked her eyes, finding them watery from the heat. It was a strange feeling, knowing that she could never return here, that no other daughters would ever be brought to this house, live within its walls, or scrub its floors. She thought about it carefully, and decided that, on the whole, it was a good feeling.

Although Morrigan was practically drained, turning into a wolf was easy. The ground felt soft beneath her paws, and when she heard the call again, this time she answered, her throat raised towards the sky.

Time to return home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: Auroraas, interesting2125, Misdirection, Mm-Burnt-Toast-mM, mutive, Spikesagitta, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision.
> 
> Morrigan mentions at some point seeing her mother with dark hair during her childhood - imo, this is probably not a natural appearance (assuming Flemeth ages normally and was quite old and probably grey-haired when Morrigan was born). That said, given Morrigan's explanations of why she doesn't shapeshift into other human forms, I'd imagine that Flemeth's younger visage could be the result of a minor glamour/mass hallucination-type spell. Not that it matters really, in the scheme of things.


	28. Brothers in Arms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> Warning for terrible melodrama.

** Recap - Alistair - chapter 26 **

[Denerim palace]

Grand Cleric: Our defeat at Redcliffe was incredibly embarrassing to the Chantry, and I lost my favourite templar. I'm going to make your life unbearable until you fix this.

Alistair: How was any of it my fault?

Grand Cleric: Everything is your fault.

Alistair: Was the rumoured immolation of a Chantry sister my fault?

Grand Cleric: You have nothing on me, Theirin.

Alistair: I hate my life.

[One fortnight later]

Templar: The wardens betrayed us, but they're all dead now.

Alistair: Where have I heard this before?

Chancellor: We should reach a compromise with the Chantry.

Alistair: I'm going to come up with a brilliant last-minute solution that fixes all of our problems.

Chancellor: I would feel better if you shared this amazing idea with me.

Alistair: I'll get right back to you on that.

[Palace nursery]

Baby Theirin: *yawns*

Alistair: Who's my only hope for the future? Is it you? I think it is!

Baby Theirin: *wishes dad wasn't so embarrassing*

Ominous Shadow: *lurks*

Alistair: My warden-sense is tingling...

Baby Theirin: Spiders?

Alistair: No, sweetie. Daddy's not nerdy enough for spandex.

Baby Theirin: Yet.

Alistair: Shush.

* * *

**Denerim**

"You're supposed to be dead."

The man lurking in front of Alistair inclined his head slightly. He took a cautious step forwards, light falling over his features, and Alistair retreated, mirroring his pace. His daughter wriggled uncomfortably against his arm, chubby fingers trying to pinch at his tunic.

The intruder was the only other warden in the room, as far as Alistair could tell, but that was no guarantee that they were alone. He glanced into the corners where the shadows were deepest, forcing his breathing to remain deep and even. "The templars said you were dead," Alistair repeated. "You know, if you wanted to schedule a meeting, my chancellor would've been more than happy to make you an appointment-"

"Too risky." Guillaume Falaize of the Orlesian Order shook his head, holding up empty palms in an appeal for peace. "Brother, I can only imagine the rumours you must have heard, but believe me when I say that the wardens are not to blame. May we speak in private?"

A rustle sounded behind Alistair and he shifted slightly to expand his field of view without taking his eyes off Guillaume. To his side, the nursemaid cleared her throat and timidly stepped forwards, blinking sleep from her eyes. He disentangled his daughter and handed her over, the girl screwing up her face in disappointment. "Take her to her mother's room," he ordered. "And bring some guards with you."

His daughter began to gulp, eyes wide and glossy, and Alistair braced himself for the inevitable tantrum. The nursemaid hustled her out with one last disparaging look towards Guillaume, and once the door closed shut, the first indignant wail pierced the air.

He ignored it. Not for the first time, Alistair wished that he had a sword belted at his hip. "Why are you here?"

Guillaume's gaze darted to the door. He was fully armed, clad in some sort of dark leather that melded with the shadows until they were almost as one, twin daggers sheathed at his back. "Your Majesty, this room is not secure-"

"Answer the question."

Guillaume sighed. "Your life is in danger, Sire. You cannot stay here."

Alistair quirked a brow. "Right. So, instead of remaining with my personal armed guard, in my heavily defended palace, you propose instead that I-"

"Brother-"

"Wait, let me guess." Alistair held up a hand imperiously. "You suggest that I run away with you in the dead of the night - the King of Ferelden absconding with an Orlesian who just so happens to be the head of an Order wanted for betrayal? That won't look suspicious at all."

Guillaume glared at him. "I have information for you," he said tersely. "Something that none of your templars were able to attain. Your guards cannot protect you from the false god."

He could call for aid, if he chose to. He imagined the guards running to his side, swords at the ready, surrounding the Orlesian in a circle of glittering steel. They would take him to Fort Drakon, most likely - the grand cleric wanted a reason for why the Maker's grace abandoned their forces on the field, and what better scapegoat than the grey wardens?

"They say all the wardens perished, after turning on their own." Outside, the sounds of wailing died away, and Alistair's shoulders slumped imperceptibly in relief.

"Most of our brothers and sisters did not survive." Guillaume folded his arms across his chest, his face grim, as though recalling the sounds and sights of the battle. "The mage Anders is alive. I cannot confirm whether there are others."

"That's one mercy." Experienced wardens like Anders were rare, and healers even rarer. "What about the accusations of treachery?"

Guillaume glanced away for a moment, though whether the gesture was betraying guilt or regret, it was impossible to say. "That is why you must leave the palace. The false god has some kind of hold over grey wardens, something to do with her connection to the darkspawn, Anders believes. We know of a way to disrupt her power-"

"Hang on a minute." Alistair's face twisted into a scowl. "Am I in danger from the people around me, or is the country endangered because you think that I'm going to be subject to some kind of... mind control thing? Look, I've put faith in weird scenarios before, but you have to admit that this one sounds insane-"

"Neither threat can be ignored," Guillaume snapped. His eyes darted to the doorway, his hands clenching briefly into fists. "Anders and I have a plan. I am begging you, Brother, as one warden to another, to trust me. We were on the field. We heard her Call." His voice became low, the light shining dully over the week-old stubble on his face. "There is one thing she wants more in this world, and that is-"

"A fully-jointed golem doll for Satinalia?" Alistair suggested, before he could help himself. "A mother who isn't a crazy bitch?"

Guillaume sighed. "She will stop at nothing to get at you. Armed guards, fortifications - these mean nothing to her. I know you are due to meet with the grand cleric," he added, changing tack. "In all honesty, Sire, what were your intentions? Simply throwing battalions at the problem will not suffice, and yet, I suspect that was precisely the Chantry's directive, was it not?"

Alistair frowned. There were several options available for dealing with the Chantry and the divine, but none of them were particularly appealing. He had intended to sleep on the issue, in the hope that the Maker would give him a 'sign', as Leliana would have said. Admittedly, it wasn't one of his most brilliant plans.

"Bring Anders to the palace," Alistair suggested. "I'll send you an armed escort to make sure the both of you arrive safely, without interference from the Chantry. We can discuss this scheme you have for suppressing the Old God, and then-"

The door to the nursery slammed open, light spilling into the dim room.

"Your Majesty!"

The king's guards stood at attention in the doorway, their swords drawn. Alistair blinked in the harsh light, his eyes protesting against the sudden brightness.

"We've been informed of a breach in palace security - there he is! In the name of the king, you are hereby under arrest, Guillaume of the Grey Wardens-"

Alistair held his hands out placatingly. "Let's not do anything rash-"

He heard the tinkle of breaking glass, and then a greenish cloud emerged around his guards, the fumes making his throat tighten and his eyes water. He gagged, coughing heavily, momentarily blinded by the noxious gas. In the confusion, he felt something brush against his hip, and then move past him as the cloud began to disperse.

His guards reached him, their eyes reddened and streaming. "Sire - are you hurt?"

Alistair glanced down at himself, still coughing. There was a scrap of parchment sticking out from his belt that had not been there a moment ago. He surreptitiously tucked it away, disguising the gesture as an attempt to straighten his tunic. "I'm fine. The Orlesian - where did he-?"

"We'll find him," the guard said grimly, and then shouted orders to his men. The others dispersed, leaving five alone with Alistair. The little nursery began to feel oppressively crowded.

Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose. He was probably about to do something he would regret immensely - but wasn't that what ruling was all about?

"I'm coming with you," he said. At his guard's dubious look, he added, "the search will be faster if I'm there - grey wardens can sense each other, after all." That was a well-known fact, wasn't it? Not that many warden secrets were terribly secret any more... "Escort me to my rooms first so that I can be properly armoured."

"Yes, Sire." Alistair could sense the man's disapproval, but to his credit, the guard was too well-trained to voice it. "Doyle, Williams, with me," the guard barked, and two more joined their retinue, making their party eight altogether.

"The more, the merrier," Alistair muttered under his breath. He set a pace towards his chambers that men in full plate would have been hard-pressed to follow, the scrap of parchment clenched tightly in his fist.

.

.

.

In hindsight, perhaps Guillaume should have dragged the mage along.

His only hope now rested with the bond they all shared through the taint, and the king's own desire for adventure. With luck, it would lead Alistair to the meeting place he had arranged with Anders, scribbled on the parchment that he had left tucked in Alistair's belt.

It was a slim chance, to be sure, but any hope was better than no hope at all.

Guillaume rounded a corner, quieting his breathing. He pressed himself flush against the wall, the sound of voices reaching his ears, followed by low murmurs and a barely suppressed giggle. Wonderful. A lovers' tryst. If only they would hurry up and move on-

"Pregnancy suits you," a man's voice murmured. This declaration was followed by another chuckle, and what could only be termed a moan. Guillaume inched closer to the light, wondering if he could risk a short sprint whilst the couple were otherwise occupied.

From his position, he could see the man's back, his bald skull gleaming in the candlelight. The pair shifted, pausing for breath, and the woman took a step away, elegant fingers raised to her rouged lips.

Guillaume caught full sight of her face. A stab of pain lanced through his heart, his breath catching in his throat.

"Liselle!"

The man pivoted, his face reddening at the intrusion, but Guillaume only had eyes for one. He drank in the sight of the crow's feet at her eyes, the finery draped on her shoulders, the prominent swell of her belly. Her mouth widened into a little 'o' of surprise, and he strode forwards, not caring who saw him.

Her hands fluttered protectively over stomach. "_Is it truly you_?" she whispered, her Orlesian coloured with an ugly Fereldan twang.

"You're him," the man spluttered, a trembling finger pointing at Guillaume. "You're the warden they've been talking about."

Guillaume wasted a brief glance on his face. He was old, far too old to be cavorting with mistresses at this time of night. The man was well-dressed, a finely engraved scabbard slung at his hip - from his gaunt frame, Guillaume guessed that the blade was merely ceremonial. "_Liselle, what are you doing? Who is this man?"_

"Guards!" The bald man began to frantically search for an escape, his hands cupped around his mouth as he yelled. "Guards! The intruder is here!"

Guillaume clenched his hand into a fist and swung it towards the man's head. It connected at the back of his skull with a solid noise, and the man toppled over, unconscious. Staring down at his face, Guillaume finally remembered where he had seen that nose before - during the Landsmeet, when he had first arrived in Denerim.

This man was one of Ferelden's elite.

"_Brother - what did you do to him?"_

Guillaume grabbed his sister by the elbow and steered her into a nearby alcove, praying that the guards would be slow to respond. "_He'll live," _he said. "_What are doing here, Liselle?" _He gestured sharply at her obvious girth. "_I thought you left Orlais to escape all of this-"_

"_I thought you were dead." _Her eyes began to fill with tears; he choked down his guilt, focusing instead on his anger as she touched his face. Her hands were soft where they had once been tanned and calloused from honest work, and he grasped her wrist, removing her palm from his cheek.

Liselle only stared at him in confusion. "_It's been ten years. When the chevaliers took you away, I heard they were going to execute you-"_

"_That doesn't matter." _Guillaume cursed under his breath, gritting his teeth. "_What are you doing with this - this whoreson?"_ He gestured savagely towards the slumped body which was now beginning to stir.

Liselle raised her chin defiantly, eyes filled with a stubborn fire that he knew all too well. "_Our child will be treasured - fed, clothed, educated - what we never had!"_ She reached towards him._ "Don't you see? This is better-"_

"_Being an adulterer is better? Better than what_?" He drew back from her grasping hand as though she were a darkspawn. "_You should've let the chevaliers take you, Liselle. You're no better than a common whore_!"

Her palm met his cheek, metal rings leaving marks on his face. She was breathing quickly, flushed with what he could only hope was shame.

"Bann Ceorlic!"

Sounds of armoured footsteps drew near, the alcove brightening as lit torches were brought into the room. "He's alive, thank the Maker."

Guillaume took one last look at his sister. She failed to meet his gaze, her eyes downcast; wondering, no doubt, when she should betray his location to the guards. His chest tightened, his vision dimming for a moment, and then the moment passed.

When she next looked up, he was gone.

.

.

.

They had been searching for hours, with the entire palace sealed up, before Alistair finally voiced what they had all been thinking.

"He's already gone," he told his guards, the seven who had insisted on accompanying him. "Let's take our search to the city."

One of them cleared his throat discreetly. "Sire, we cannot possibly allow you to comb the whole of Denerim-"

"I know him," Alistair insisted. "There are a few places I want to check. Have the horses saddled and ready in ten minutes. Oh, and ask the kitchen to prepare something for the road."

The message was passed along, and they headed towards the stables at a leisurely pace.

The night air was pleasantly cool, a bulbous moon making their task all the easier. Alistair closed his eyes briefly before raising them skywards. "Andraste, grant me strength," he murmured under his breath.

"Sire?"

"Is that the food?" he asked quickly, as a groom shoved a parcel into one of his saddlebags. "Great. Let's head towards the city gates."

They set a brisk pace, with Alistair's stallion trapped in the centre of the formation, lantern bearers riding to the front and rear. He pondered the logistics of the operation. He had never attempted evading his own escort before, much as he had longed to - the nobility and the nation had seen to that. It was strange how an Orlesian had finally convinced him it was time to break the rules - or perhaps not so strange, considering some of Maric's legendary adventures. There was a droll joke somewhere in that, but for the life of him, he could not work it out.

"Let's dismount and continue on foot," he ordered, when they neared the gates. "Williams, watch over the horses."

One of the other guards coughed. "Sire, perhaps it would be best-"

Some drunken passersby had begun to stare, startled to find themselves face to face with a bann's ransom in fine horses. Williams drew his sword, and the onlookers moved away.

"Come on," Alistair said, forcing cheer into his voice. "We'll catch the man and then head back before anyone misses us, right?"

One of the guards sighed. Before anyone could object, Alistair began to sprint, navigating the streets of Denerim with only his rusty memory to guide him. How long since he had last visited his city, where he had lived and governed for over ten years?

Too long, clearly, as he reached a dead end. His guards caught up to him, sans Williams, the men looking around the alleyway in confusion.

"Sire, perhaps we should return to the horses-"

"Forgive me," Alistair murmured. He reached into a pouch, finding a vial, and tossed it into the midst of his guards, one hand held firmly over his nose and mouth. A cloud of vapour rose up when the vial shattered on the ground, and his guards began to cough, one of them staggering and collapsing with a metallic clatter.

Silently thanking Zevran for teaching him the basics, Alistair used the diversion to sneak past his entourage, heading back towards the horses.

Williams turned to him as he approached. "Sire! What happened to the others-"

One blow from Alistair's shield sent the man reeling, leaving him free to climb up ungracefully into the saddle of his horse. "Sorry," he offered, as Williams groaned and stared up at him with an expression of confused betrayal. Thetus had given him that kind of look whenever he had been less than forthcoming with the dinner scraps; a terrible analogy, really, and Alistair shook his head, the reins biting into his palm.

He clicked his tongue, heels digging into the horse's flanks, and they headed towards what he sincerely hoped would not prove to be another gross failure of judgement.

.

.

.

"I told you I should have gone with you. I would've dragged him out first try, and we'd be halfway across the country by now-"

"Anders, shut up."

"Am I late?" Alistair asked, reining in his stallion. He had grown sick of dirt roads and interminable darkness on the route outside of Denerim, his doubts increasing with every step. Guillaume glanced moodily over his shoulder, but Anders broke into a grin, stepping forwards with his arms open.

"Not at all!" the mage said cheerfully. "Welcome to our den of iniquity!" he declared, gesturing to a meagre campsite where three horses were tethered.

"Trousers?" Alistair quirked a brow, looking Anders up and down.

"Apparently mage robes are too memorable," Anders said with a melodramatic sigh. "I don't know how you put up with it - what with the chafing and the-"

"I am glad you could join us, Your Majesty," Guillaume interrupted. His eyes scanned the darkness behind Alistair, as though a hundred guardsmen were about to leap out at them at any second. "You should lose your horse. He's too noticeable as royal property."

Alistair sighed, dismounting and taking his belongings from the horse's saddlebags. "Go on, you," he said affectionately, and gave him a pat on the neck. The horse snorted at him, and then wandered off in a trot, heading back along the path they had taken. With luck, he would reach the guards again before someone stole him, but knowing Denerim, that seemed a naive hope at best. Alistair quashed a flicker of guilt as he turned back towards the other wardens.

"So, this information you have about the Old God had better be good, or I'm placing you both under arrest."

"You can try," Anders chuckled, leading a horse towards Alistair.

"Let us talk on the road," Guillaume said. "We should head away from Denerim before someone finds you here."

"And we should do something about your hair," Anders offered. "You look too... kingly."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

Anders began to rattle off a list of everything wrong with Alistair's hair, his mother, and his royal personage in general. Alistair could not help himself; he began to laugh, his blood humming with the feeling of - closeness? Companionship?

Despite everything, Alistair found himself happier than he had been for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, interesting2125, Misdirection, Mm-Burnt-Toast-mM, mutive, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision.
> 
> Liselle is one of the Orlesian shopkeepers in the Denerim marketplace. She mentions fleeing Orlais with her brother, but in this 'verse the chevaliers (and later the wardens) got to him first and he never made it to Ferelden. Until now.


	29. Counterpoint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta. And with thanks to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> Thank you to Noah Sila for our discussions, in particular Morrigan's issues with letting go and for generally encouraging my weirdness. ^_^;;
> 
> Warning: Vague references to rape.

** Recap - Morrigan - chapter 27 **

[Korcari Wilds]

Morrigan: Nothing like the stench of mud and marsh to remind one of home.

[Flashback]

Young Morrigan: Templars! My favourite!

Templar: Hey little girl, want to take us to your apostate parent so that we may slay them before your very eyes?

Young Morrigan: Do I ever!

Flemeth: Welcome, gentlemen. Please make yourselves comfortable. May I interest you in a side dish of murder and torture (not necessarily in that order)?

Templars: *die gruesome deaths*

[Flashback]

Morrigan: You are asking me to couple with this - this unschooled Chantry boy? 'Twould be a miracle if he even knew the meaning of the word.

Flemeth: Stop your whining, girl. He's handsome enough, is he not?

Morrigan: Perhaps...

Alistair: Could you please stop talking about me as though I'm not here? I might be unconscious but I still have feelings, you know.

Morrigan: Incidentally, everyone you ever loved died horrible, lingering deaths. Allow me to describe the scene in detail.

Alistair: *cries manly tears of manliness*

[End flashbacks]

Morrigan: 'Twould be sensible if I took some of Mother's books with me, at the very least. Though I fail to see how I could carry them in bird form. Ah well...

Morrigan: *incinerates the house and everything inside it*

Morrigan: So, Mother - I still have more fanboys than you could ever hope for, despite your attempts at recovering your sordid youth. Honestly, could you at least dress your age? I shudder to think why anyone would want to envisage you in plunging armour. 'Tis most disturbing.

DA2!Flemeth: *preens*

* * *

 

 

 

**Redcliffe**

The sun was low in the sky when Morrigan returned, circling the castle towers as she searched for a place to land. A shape on the parapets caught her eye, and she headed towards it, drifting lower. She wondered how long the warden had been there - whether Sylvanna had ventured out every day in anticipation of her return.

Morrigan landed upon Sylvanna's arm with a rush of feathers, her talons slicing through thin leather gloves. Sylvanna stumbled, and Morrigan dug in further to avoid being knocked off her perch, wings fluttering for balance. Blood welled up around her feet, and she tilted her head to watch its slow progression.

"Let's get you inside," Sylvanna said. She looked down, as if trying to find the human within the hawk's eyes. Morrigan returned her gaze, seeing the shadows lining her face, the dirt around her collar, until Sylvanna finally turned away.

Morrigan clung to Sylvanna as she walked, shoulders hunched defensively against the cold weight of stone overhead. When they reached one of the upper rooms, she flew up into the rafters, perching amidst the cobwebs.

"I told the servants to run you a bath," Sylvanna said, gesturing towards a vessel in the middle of the room. She made a complicated motion with her hands, and steam began to rise from its surface. Turning from Morrigan, she removed her glove with a wince; angry red slashes crossed her arm, and she spent a few moments closing the wounds.

Morrigan fluttered down from her perch, landing on the side of the bath with the hollow sound of talons clicking against metal. She hopped down to the floor and changed, rising from a crouch and rocking unsteadily on her human feet. She caught Sylvanna's dubious expression from the opposite side of the room and rubbed the back of her hand across her mouth, old blood flaking off at the gesture.

It was an odd thing, taking another's form - hawks did not concern themselves much with guilt, or emotional consequences. Her human heart, however, felt both those things keenly, and the feeling only worsened with Sylvanna's silence.

Morrigan glanced down, her grimy hair obscuring her vision, and carefully climbed into the bath. There were herbs floating on the surface, sliding over her palms as she splashed water onto her face, breathing in the metallic tang of copper and tasting iron on her lips. Words caught at the back of her throat as she struggled to remember how to speak. "Syl-"

A lump of soap landed in the bath with a wet splash, followed by a loofah. Morrigan swallowed and picked up both of them. She washed herself thoroughly, water spilling over the sides of the bath as she reached down to clean the blood between her toes. She felt Sylvanna's presence behind her, never speaking, as though they were both ghosts re-enacting some long-forgotten ritual.

Once she finished bathing, she rested her head gently against the side of the tub. The strain of maintaining another's form for two weeks finally caught up to her, causing her eyes to close as she felt Sylvanna stroking her hair. She ought to say something - anything - to break the silence. Instead, she leant into Sylvanna's touch, listening to the sounds of their breaths synchronising, as though they were one being.

_Only __for __a__ moment__,_ she told herself, before exhaustion drowned her senses and claimed all thought.

.

.

.

_Drip_ _._

_Drip_ _._

It was the sound that woke her, Morrigan decided later on. It lingered at the edge of her consciousness, pushing her out of the realm of dreamers and into the stark grip of reality.

_Drip_.

She sat up with a start, tepid water sloshing musically onto the floor. She blinked rapidly, seeking light in the darkness as she reached over the side of the bath. Flame flared in her palm, and she lit a candle with a flick of her fingers.

Her hair hung cold against her back like a mass of tangled seaweed; she squeezed the liquid from it, water sluicing off her body as she rose and stepped onto the damp stone. She struggled to dress, fumbling to knot a sash with hands that were clumsy and alien, heavy and scarcely sharp enough for her liking.

The corridors were illuminated by flickering tapers, allowing her to see her damp footprints as she trod back to her bedroom. The door creaked open noisily as she leant against it, a faint scritching noise reaching her ears before she stepped into the room.

Sylvanna sat at the desk, writing furiously in the light of a single lamp. Her quill drifted over the page with a rhythmic ebb and flow, her eyes focused so intently on her work that she failed to look up when Morrigan approached.

A number of phrases ran through Morrigan's mind - strange words that sat uncomfortably on her tongue, twisting up like complex incantations when she tried to arrange them. Simple words, like the ones you would use to greet a stranger - '_are __you __well__? __How __have __you __been __keeping__?_' and more difficult words, like '_regret__' _and '_forgive __me_.'

They were still tangled in her throat when Sylvanna spoke, not deigning to look at her. "You took a while. I thought perhaps you'd drowned."

Morrigan smoothed the damp hair from her face with her palm before answering, drinking in the scene before her. Lamplight cast odd shadows on the walls, revealing thin white scars on Sylvanna's arm - talon marks. That was unexpected. Such a small injury should have been easy to heal without a trace; Sylvanna had certainly practised enough during the Blight to be sufficiently adept.

"What is that?" Morrigan asked, gesturing towards her writing.

Sylvanna paused, the nib of the quill hovering just above the parchment. "A letter to the Arl of South Reach, offering my apologies for not seeing him in person."

Morrigan frowned, stepping further into the room. The last she had heard of South Reach during an audience with Ishantha, before the siege. "What business have you with the arl? As I recall, his presence was requested here at Redcliffe-"

"There's been a change of plans." Sylvanna continued to write, her tone sounding bored as she returned to the task before her. "We decided to pay the good arl a visit. And by 'we', I mean you and your daughter."

Ishantha was a poor travelling companion, talking constantly and never seeming to tire. Morrigan shuddered at the thought of spending a week or more in her company. "Why was I not consulted in this matter?"

Sylvanna spared her a brief glance. "You weren't here." She finished writing, signing her name with a tight scrawl, the nib leaving indents on the parchment. "You'd best begin packing, since you're due to leave on the morrow."

How dare they attempt to move her around like some anonymous foot soldier? Morrigan lowered her voice. "And where will you be?"

Sylvanna sprinkled sand over the wet page, corking the inkwell. "Here," she said, folding her hands on top of one another and gazing up at Morrigan, her expression carefully bland. "The seneschal requires further instruction, and there are other things that need personal attention."

Morrigan's jaw tightened, and she crossed her arms over her chest. "I will not go."

Sylvanna shook the letter free of sand, folding it into neat quarters. "It's for the best, Morrigan. If you have a problem with the plan, you should speak with your daughter."

There were other, more pressing issues she needed to discuss. Between the morning after her death and the journey to the Korcari Wilds, Morrigan had not spoken to her daughter for over a fortnight. If Ishantha harboured any illusions that time had saved her from her mother's wrath, she was about to be unpleasantly surprised.

"I shall," Morrigan snapped. "This is absurd, Sylvanna. Why leave so soon? Why not wait for my return before making such a rash decision?"

Sylvanna's eyebrow twitched, the first sign of her irritation since Morrigan had entered the room. "It's not like you left us any indication of when you would return, or whether you would return at all. It made sense to plan for the worst."

"That is the most ridiculous excuse I have ever heard-"

Sylvanna slammed her palm down onto the table, the quills and blank pieces of parchment jumping into the air. "Why can't you take responsibility for your own actions?"

Morrigan drew back, her own hands clenching into fists. "I fail to see how this-"

"You left. Without a word. There are still darkspawn around, you know, and stray templars and who knows what else. We were worried sick."

"My independence is not negotiable. I-"

"You have a daughter, Morrigan. You cannot simply up and leave whenever you wish. What if something happened to you? What do you think she would do?"

When Flemeth died, Morrigan had had been overcome with a wealth of emotions, but her dominant feeling had been one of relief. She hoped that Ishantha would at least have the decency to avenge her death, if not to mourn her. "I was hardly exposed to any danger, and if you think for a moment-"

Sylvanna began to laugh. "Not in any danger?" she echoed mockingly, her eyes flashing a glacial blue. "Are you truly so arrogant as to believe that?"

_You__ were __the __one __who __murdered __me__,_ Morrigan thought bitterly, but knew better than to voice it. At her silence, Sylvanna made a dismissive gesture and turned to seal her letter, but Morrigan was not yet done. "What is this really about?"

Sylvanna stabbed a signet into a pool of molten wax, splashing red droplets over the clean envelope. "Denerim."

"That hardly answers my question."

"You left me in Denerim," Sylvanna said, setting the signet down with enough force that it scratched the desk. "You left me - without a word, without an explanation, leaving me no idea what I'd done wrong or what was going through that thick, crazy skull of yours."

Morrigan remembered her reasons well enough. She hated seeing the warden so weak, and after Fort Drakon Sylvanna had been exactly that - bruised and snivelling and utterly useless to anyone. Morrigan had told herself that it was for the best, that it would make things easier, in the end.

What a fool she had been.

"Not all my motives are connected with you-"

"You left me, Morrigan, and I needed you!" Sylvanna shouted, her face flushing an ugly shade of pink. "I needed you," she repeated in a softer tone, her expression so completely naked that it hurt to look at her.

Sylvanna rose from the desk, pushing her chair back with a screech. She stepped forwards, her movements shaky and uncontrolled, causing ripples in the air where energy surged around her. Morrigan imagined demons clawing in at the edges of the Veil, waiting to break through to the mortal world. She prepared a spell under her breath and held it, concealed safely in her palm.

"I hope for your sake that it was worth it, this time. I asked you before, Morrigan - what do you want? Do you even know?"

Morrigan hesitated. Sylvanna in one of her moods resembled a wild animal, dangerous, but not entirely unpredictable. She took a step forwards. "'Twas not my intention to hurt you-"

Apparently that was not the right thing to say. Sylvanna pivoted, hurling something from the desk at Morrigan's head. She ducked, and Arl Teagan's fragile Antivan paperweight shattered against the wall behind her, shards raining down with a dismal tinkle.

"Darkspawn take your intentions!"

Time to try something different. Morrigan strengthened the spell in her palm, slowly stepping forwards with the intention of allowing it to take hold upon skin contact. "If you would simply listen-"

"Don't touch me!"

Morrigan felt a phantom pressure pushing against her and she staggered, almost falling over. Her concentration slipped, and the spell she had been holding fell from her grasp, mutating into something completely different. A shockwave radiated from her in concentric rings as the Veil shifted around them.

Sylvanna stumbled, falling back against the desk with a thud. She reached out for balance and knocked over the inkwell, its cork slipping free with a pop. Darkness spilled over the desk, and Sylvanna righted herself, staring at the stain spreading across her sealed letter, the ink feathering into the parchment.

Morrigan swallowed. "Sylvanna, I-"

"Don't." Sylvanna pulled a drawer open, scrabbling around for something, and then drew out a cloth, wiping ineffectually at the marks on her skin. She turned the inkwell upright - a futile gesture, seeing as the liquid was already seeping deep into the wood grain.

Morrigan reached out, seeking to accomplish through touch what she had failed to do with words. Her hand brushed Sylvanna's arm for a second before she drew back in shock, electricity sparking between them, causing pain to lance through her fingertips. She caught a glimpse of Sylvanna's eyes, steeled for war and unmoved by pity, before an invisible force slammed against her chest, tossing her across the room as though she were no heavier than a rag doll. Blackness filled her vision as the spell released her, and she collapsed onto the bed with a pained groan.

When next she glanced up, Sylvanna was above her, knees at either side of her hips. Morrigan raised herself onto her elbows, inching back along the bed until she reached the wall, Sylvanna mirroring her movements at every step.

"I hate you," Sylvanna said, before reaching down and kissing her with brutal force. She tasted faintly of cinnamon and aniseed, her nails digging painfully into Morrigan's still-damp scalp.

Morrigan flinched at the words, and then donned her finest glare like armour. "I assure you," she hissed, "the feeling is mutual." She grasped Sylvanna firmly by the shoulders, drawing them closer together. Heat radiated between them where their bodies touched, and she was overwhelmed by the urge to feel bare skin against her own.

Morrigan reached for Sylvanna's laces and began to tug them free, the cord making a silky sound as they worked loose from their eyelets. Sylvanna's hand snaked down to untangle the sash at her waist, making light work of the clumsy bow that Morrigan had knotted.

"You have no right," Sylvanna said as they worked. "What have I ever done to make you hate me?"

"Your attempt on my life, for one." Attempts plural, rather - the night of Ishantha's conception, and the more recent incident that had been erased from Sylvanna's memory.

"You deserved it." Sylvanna leant forwards so that their noses were almost touching, the peaks of her bare breasts causing a distracting friction against Morrigan's skin. "You should've told me about the Old God from the start, instead of being an insufferable, selfish idiot-"

That was more than Morrigan could rationally stand to bear, and she brought her knee up sharply to dislodge Sylvanna's weight, but the warden rolled off her before the blow connected. Sylvanna leant over the side of the bed, reaching for something just out of view, and then Morrigan caught a glimpse of it from the corner of her eye.

She laughed incredulously as Sylvanna calmly strapped the device to her hips using an intricate system of buckles. "That is truly-" Morrigan floundered, lost for words. "Where did you even find such a contraption?"

Sylvanna turned to her with a slight quirk of her lips. "You don't like it?" she asked mockingly. "The harness is Orlesian made-"

"Quite," Morrigan snapped, more harshly than she had intended. Sylvanna crawled towards her, and Morrigan sank back into the mattress, trying to prevent that... thing... from touching her.

"Do you remember our first time in Denerim? We stepped into the Wonders of Thedas. Leliana asked you a question, and you replied, '_I__ would __sooner __bed __the __dog_'," Sylvanna reminisced with a bitter smile.

"I confess, the memory eludes me."

"I asked Leliana, later on, what in the world you had been talking about, and she told me," Sylvanna said, one hand casually stroking the length of the instrument. "You're lucky, you know, that I managed to find one at all. Leliana was right - Fereldans are such prudes. In the Circle, we had to make do with all sorts of odd materials: leather and catgut, or carved wooden-"

"If I had wanted to lie with a man, I would have done so," Morrigan snapped.

"And so you did."

Morrigan flinched at the accusation, so blandly delivered, but Sylvanna continued on. "We do not always voice our true desires, not even to ourselves."

"Pray then, tell me - what do you think I desire?"

Sylvanna smiled, the expression stretching across her scarred face. "Me, of course," she purred, and Morrigan was hard pressed to deny the surge of want she felt as Sylvanna pressed coyly against her.

The... obscenity felt cold and hard against Morrigan's stomach. Sylvanna grabbed her hand, guiding it down over the smooth length of the shaft. Morrigan's fingers traced downwards of their own accord, finding the hilt of the device and the slight ridge where it emerged from the leather harness.

"That is truly the most ridiculous accessory you have ever worn," Morrigan said, her breath catching in her throat.

"Worse than those enchanters' cowls?"

"Much," Morrigan snapped, trying not to moan as Sylvanna rubbed the head of the device teasingly at the junction of her legs.

"I think you'll find this accessory more... stimulating than a few horrifically ugly hats," Sylvanna demurred, in an irritatingly smug tone of voice.

"Surely you are not expecting me to actually permit you to-"

"Shut. Up," Sylvanna growled, shoving down upon Morrigan's shoulders with such force that her head cracked against the wall above the bed. As Morrigan contemplated her revenge, Sylvanna took the opportunity given by her dazed lack of resistance to take the first plunge, accompanied by Morrigan's surprised groan.

It felt larger than she had anticipated from discerning its shape in the dim light, and Morrigan turned her head to the side, a low moan escaping from her lips. Sylvanna held her there, and she felt the faint brush of breath against her neck. She was prepared to snap out an angry retort when Sylvanna moved, drawing out and then back in again with such force that it left her breathless. Sylvanna's hands wandered down to her hips, holding her in place (not that she truly wanted to move, to her chagrin), and she struggled obstinately against the warden's slight weight. Sylvanna avoided her attempts to wriggle out of her hold with a humiliating ease, and eventually they settled into a rhythm that felt at once familiar and yet not, as if she had woken one day to find her favourite robes had been improperly laundered, exerting pressure in unexpected places.

She anticipated Sylvanna's next movement and interrupted it prematurely, grinding her hips upwards as Sylvanna gasped. She waited until Sylvanna was almost fully withdrawn and then pushed her away, rolling over in one fluid motion. Triumphant, she grabbed Sylvanna's arm above the elbow and shoved her downwards, wrapping her other hand around the warden's throat and squeezing hard until she ceased her ineffectual thrashings, glaring up at Morrigan with the cautious beginnings of surrender.

Morrigan carefully settled back down again upon the device at her own leisure, led to make the useful observation that her hands were still free to reach other sensitive areas of flesh. Perhaps she ought to give the Orlesians more credit, she thought as she forced Sylvanna's head to tilt upwards by tugging on her hair; they really were a very... practical people.

Sylvanna moaned wantonly as Morrigan rubbed at a point just below the shaft, squirming eagerly between her thighs. "Take me," she said unexpectedly, her eyes bright with desire. "I want you to take all of me."

_Yes_, replied the voice inside Morrigan's mind, eager and more than willing to assume control. _Yes_. She bent down low over Sylvanna's body, pressing a kiss into the warm hollow of her neck. Sylvanna's pulse beat erratic and fast, the sound of her blood pounding in a rhythm all of its own, dark and enticing. It sang to her, rich and warm and-

(The right thing to do would have been to say no. But they were both aware, she reasoned; they both knew the risks, and if Sylvanna was going to deliberately provoke her then Morrigan would be damned if she was going to be blamed for taking the bait.)

"Yes," she said. The words came easily to her, the old chant she had practised on more than a few unwary Chasind men. It summoned Sylvanna's blood to her with a shocking ease, and the warmth of it filled her more completely than any lover ever possibly could. She watched with a fierce longing as Sylvanna's eyes widened, the spell weaving tightly around them. Sylvanna writhed against her but it was far too late to stop; Morrigan gathered her body close like a spider cradling its prey in its web, feeling her shudder as Sylvanna sobbed in the throes of ecstasy. Her blood was strange, new - that hint of indeterminable darkness adding a tantalising spice as it slipped unerringly from skin to skin.

Morrigan deliberately slowed her pace, restraining her hunger as Sylvanna struggled beneath her, sweat prickling on her brow. "Look at me," she ordered, and was forced to repeat the instruction twice more before Sylvanna obeyed, raising her eyes to her, wide and brilliant blue with an intriguing mix of pain and pleasure that Morrigan found irresistible. She rewarded her obedience with a kiss, and Sylvanna moaned against her mouth, the sound swiftly turning into a scream as Morrigan let down the last of her defences and brought the spell to its natural conclusion. It took only a moment to steal the last of Sylvanna's life force, feeling it rush into her body with a shot of ecstasy that tipped her out far past her point of release.

.

.

.

Sylvanna was pale and unmoving when Morrigan came to her senses. She sat up with a start and placed her fingertips at the base of Sylvanna's throat, desperately searching for a pulse. A slight shimmer stirred the air above Sylvanna's body, wreathing it in magic. For a moment, Morrigan was utterly bewildered, knowing that she had not prepared a further spell, and then Sylvanna coughed quietly and groaned. She rubbed the back of her head, tilting her neck from side to side as she sat up, magic continuing to circulate with a soft hum around her body.

"You..." Morrigan's voice trailed off.

"Did you really think I would let you hurt me?" Sylvanna asked, seemingly amused. She turned away for a moment as she released the buckles at her hips, throwing the device aside where it landed on the floor somewhere with a clatter. Morrigan made a mental note to retrieve it in the morning; it would hardly do for the maids to have more fuel for their scandalous rumours.

"How did you...?"

Sylvanna stretched her arms languorously above her head before flopping back upon the pillows with a sigh. "You'd have recognised the spell if you'd only learnt how to heal," she said, with a pointed look.

There were several good reasons why Morrigan had never deigned to study the healing arts. It was so demeaning, first and foremost. It encouraged a dependency between healer and healed, a kind of bond that went beyond practical necessity and mutually beneficial transactions. It was unnecessarily intimate and messy and nauseating. Besides, Morrigan had always harboured a sneaking suspicion that she probably wouldn't have been very good at it.

She frowned, narrowing her eyes. "You could not have been sure of its success-"

"Oh, I was hardly in any danger," Sylvanna said mockingly, with a smug little quirk of her lips. She raised her head, flicking her wrist in a lazy motion and cast another charm on herself. The magic fell about her like a veil, iridescent sparks arcing in the air as the colour slowly returned to her face. The scars on her arm disappeared as well, fading into her skin until Morrigan could no longer remember the shape of them.

Sylvanna tugged the sheet over her body, turning away with a self-satisfied little sigh. Morrigan nestled down into the bed, pressing her cheek into the smoothness of Sylvanna's hair as she curled around her, trying to shake the persistent and unsettling feeling that she had just been outmanoeuvred.

"Next time," Sylvanna murmured drowsily, "I want to be on top."

"Considering how soon we are apparently parting ways, what makes you believe that there will be a 'next time'?" Morrigan asked, intending to be flippant, but her voice came out unpleasantly strained.

Sylvanna turned over, looking at her with an odd expression in her eyes. "I suppose that's up to you, my dear."

"Come with us to South Reach," Morrigan urged.

Sylvanna's lips curved into a mysterious little smile. "The seneschal here will bear some watching, once Ishantha's presence is removed. I expect that I will be able to join you within a month or two."

"So long? Surely the arling can look after itself-"

"Oh Morrigan, dependency is so unbecoming on you," Sylvanna drawled, running her fingertips over Morrigan's arm to take some of the sting out of her words.

Morrigan jerked back. "You are completely and utterly insufferable."

"I learnt from the best," Sylvanna said, rolling her eyes. "Oh, don't be like that. Go to sleep, Morrigan."

Her hands tightened for a moment before she forced herself to relax, marks visible where the nails had dug into her palms. Sylvanna rested her head against her chest, heedless of her comfort, and yet she found herself unwilling to move.

Morrigan watched her for a time, seeing the flicker of movement beneath closed lids and feeling her chest press against her with each breath. "Sylvanna," she began, the words finally there to be spoken. "Sylvanna, I-"

The elf was already asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: interesting2125, Misdirection, Mm-Burnt-Toast-mM, mutive, Spikesagitta and Zero-Vision.


	30. The Cat Returns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - Alistair, Guillaume, Anders - chapter 28 **

[Denerim palace]

Guillaume: The Old God is coming! The end is nigh!

Alistair: What, is it Tuesday already?

Guillaume: Just come to the rendezvous point.

[Later]

Liselle: Does this dress make me look fat?

Guillaume: Yes. *slap* Also, you're a whore.

Liselle: Way to lose sympathy points, big brother.

Guillaume: I try.

Guardsmen: The king would never be so irresponsible as to try to shirk his duties and sneak out of the city unescorted. Right?

Alistair: Yeah, about that...

Guardsmen: *get shafted*

Alistair: I'll miss you, Denerim. No wait, I won't.

Anders: What in Andraste's name did you do with your hair?

Alistair: What did you do with your robes?

Anders: It looks like something crawled up on your chin and died.

Alistair: Remind me why I left my cosy palace again?

Anders: Trust me - it's all about the bromance.

Alistair: I was afraid you'd say that.

Guillaume: *sighs*

* * *

**The Fade**

Summerday in Redcliffe was always a joyous occasion; trestle tables crowded the village square, groaning under the sheer weight of food. One of the Chantry sisters found a lute, and the air was soon filled with a passable rendition of the Ballad of the Black Fox, heavily censored for young ears.

Alistair sat quietly below one of the far tables, huddling in the shade. He raised sticky fingers to his mouth, licking off the jam that clung to them, his lips smeared red. He had offered to share his find with Bella, but she had seemed disinterested, running off with the other girls to sit and giggle in the copse behind the old pier. He had kissed her, once, on a dare. It had been pretty gross, on the whole - an awkward fumbling of tongues and breath - and he mustn't have been very good at it, because afterwards she didn't talk to him for over a week.

Girls were strange.

On the bright side, it meant that he had all the jam to himself, which wasn't so bad. If he squished his hand up really tight, he could almost scrape the bottom of the jar with his fingertips-

"You there! Boy! What're you doing?"

Alistair sat up with a guilty start, bumping his head on the underside of the table. He thrust his hand behind his back, fist still squeezed into the jam jar, and tried to wipe the evidence from his chin with his other hand.

A rail-thin arm reached under the table and hauled him out by his collar, the cloth digging into his neck as he gulped for air.

"Oh, it's the Young Bastard," the woman said, rolling her eyes. Alistair looked down at his feet and adopted an air of meek contrition. He glanced up shyly to see if it had worked.

The woman peered more closely at him. "Is that the arlessa's jam?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch.

Alistair swallowed. "I didn't steal it!" He wiped his fingers on the seat of his breeches, to no avail. For his efforts, he received a ringing clip around his ear, the woman snatching the jar from his stained hands.

"Go and play with the rest of the children," she ordered, "and we'll say no more of this."

Alistair nodded, rubbing his stinging ear as he backed away. He ran until the sounds of adult voices diminished, only stumbling to a halt when he reached the cool shade of the forest beyond the village. Ahead of him, he heard shrieks of laughter, and automatically tensed before feeling foolish. Most of the village children had no time for him - too close to the Guerrins to be accepted in their ranks, and not important enough to be toadied to, he was, as usual, somewhere in between, not managing to belong anywhere.

A younger boy grabbed his arm. What was his name? Timothy? Tom? "Come on," he urged. "We've just started a new game!"

"What're we playing?" Alistair asked, leaves rustling beneath his bare feet.

"Mister Wolf!"

Alistair joined the rest of the children in a raggedly line. Sunlight dappled their faces as the leaves moved overhead in the breeze, shifting the warm air but providing no relief. Ahead of them, a girl stood facing a tree some ten yards away - the designated wolf.

He joined in the chorus without thinking, safe in the knowledge that at least no one would be looking at him. "What's the time, Mister Wolf?"

"Six o'clock!"

They moved forwards six steps, twigs snapping beneath their weight. The lone child in front of them turned and grinned, but not before Alistair saw the face under that shock of red hair - Bella. She smiled at him and winked, and his heart did a complicated little skip as though it were being crushed.

"What's the time, Mister Wolf?"

"Three o'clock!"

They moved again, until they had crossed half the distance between Bella and the starting point. Alistair wiped a bead of sweat from his face, swatting at a stray fly that hovered at his shoulder.

"What's the time, Mister Wolf?"

"Twelve o'clock!"

Alistair measured out his steps carefully, keeping pace with the rest of the children. He was directly in front of Bella - close enough to see the splatter of mud along her hem, and the places where her apron strings had begun to fray. He would be the first picked if she turned and reached out, and he tried to take smaller steps to compensate. Then again, being tagged by Bella might not be such a bad thing...

"What's the time, Mister Wolf?"

The air shifted, a frigid wind blowing through the forest. Alistair shivered, wrapping his arms around himself and glanced upwards, green leaves floating down before his face.

He felt Bella smile even before she turned, her eyes staring directly at him. He swallowed a lump in his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. This was no child - there was knowledge in her face, ancient and terrible, her innocence sloughing away from her like a second skin. She reached for him, hands radiating cold where she grasped his shoulders, in contrast to her breath searing his cheek. She smelled a little like a dead rat Alistair had once found at the back of the stables, its putrid flesh crawling with maggots.

She brought her lips close to his, pointed teeth gleaming in the sun.

"Dinnertime."

.

.

.

**Northern Ferelden**

"Who's a clever boy? You are! Yes you are!"

Alistair groaned, blinking in the light filtering into his tent. Outside, Anders' voice continued to rise and fall, the words growing more inane by the minute.

He fumbled for his shirt and breeches, dragging himself outside. The object of Anders' attention quickly became apparent: a plump ginger tabby, legs in the air like an upturned turtle as it submitted to Anders' coddling with a deep, rolling purr.

"You found a stray? But we're in the middle of nowhere!" Alistair said.

Anders practically pouted. "Ser Pounce-a-lot is not a stray! I was worried about you," he crooned, scratching the cat under its chin.

Alistair rolled his eyes.

"Where did that come from?" Guillaume asked as he walked up to them. He was fully armoured even at this early hour, unlike Alistair, who had only strapped on a sword out of habit.

"I'm not really sure," Anders said. "He must've sneaked out of Gwaren and tried to find us. Isn't he clever?"

Alistair scratched his head. "Anders, that's absurd. Cats aren't like homing pigeons."

"You're just grumpy because the nightmares are coming back. Isn't he a grumpy warden, Ser Pounce-a-lot?"

"Wait, what nightmares?"

Anders rose from his crouch, and shared a glance with Guillaume. "Haven't you been dreaming about the Old God? We just assumed it was a warden thing. You know, like the archdemon."

"I haven't-" Alistair stopped. No, that wasn't true. There was that dream this morning...

"Your Majesty, we should keep moving," Guillaume said.

Anders sighed. "I'll see to the horses," he offered, and wandered off, the cat slinking away at his heels.

Once the mage had left them, Guillaume gestured at his appearance. "You should prepare yourself. The roads are unsafe."

Alistair grimaced. It had been a very, very long time since he'd had to wear plate on a daily basis, and he only hoped that his muscles were up to the task. "I'll get suited up," he said, even though his stomach made protesting noises. Along with the horses, Anders had also brought him a plain set of plate, rather than the distinctive silverite of the Theirin family. Alistair had buried his other armour under a marked tree, though not without some regret.

In fact, the whole situation was patently ridiculous - he, the governing ruler of Ferelden traipsing around the countryside like an itinerant mercenary. He had left a vague note for Hernays, trying to reassure the man that he wasn't the subject of some Orlesian plot, but Maker only knew what use that would be.

Both Anders and Guillaume were convinced that he was in mortal danger. If Alistair was going to be perfectly honest with himself, it hardly mattered - for the first time since the Blight, he was free. Free to die a horrible death at the hands of some crazed deity-abomination, perhaps, but free nonetheless.

Sooner or later the guilt would set in and he would find some way to persuade both wardens to return with him to Denerim (he had a child, after all, and committees to oversee and funding to approve and a Chantry he needed to tell to sod off) but that fate, he told himself, was distant yet.

If only he could believe it.

Guillaume was helping him with the last of his straps, the stubborn leather refusing to tighten, when Anders' voice broke through his thoughts.

"Darkspawn! Ten of them! Andraste's flaming-"

"That's impossible," Alistair said, as Guillaume bit off a curse and finished with his preparations. He grabbed his shield, hefting its weight over his arm. They were experienced wardens, all three of them - Alistair's skills could use a bit of sharpening up, sure - but under the circumstances, they should have sensed darkspawn a mile away.

Alistair was the last on the scene, slowed by his heavy armour. When he arrived, Guillaume was already dispatching a few shrieks trapped by Anders' protective glyphs, the magic silencing their distinctive voices. He felt Anders drawing upon the Fade, his tongue tingling with the taste of it, but beyond that was something else, something other-

"Emissary!" Alistair yelled, barrelling down to meet two hurlocks. This was nothing like sparring - he had almost forgotten just how ugly darkspawn were in person; the smell alone could knock a man off his feet. Curiously, though, neither one seemed particularly interested in killing him, and that was incredibly disturbing - usually they only tried to spare women, and untainted women at that.

As he finished off the pair of them, he felt hot air rushing past his face, animalistic screams rising over the sounds of combat. Anders' voice rose too, in a chant; Alistair wiped a film of blood from his eyes to see the mage still hanging onto a set of bridles, the horses rearing in panic. It was hard enough to get military beasts to tolerate the scent of darkspawn; Maker only knew how Loghain had managed it, but the ones Anders had found weren't even combat ready.

"Anders, leave them!" Alistair shouted, racing towards him. Another surge of magic flared up, and then a burst of heat knocked him onto his back, with only his gambeson protecting him from his searing armour. His head thwacked against the ground, and for a moment he saw nothing but blackness, the sounds of battle fading beneath the ringing in his ears. As he climbed to his feet, it became clear that he had only experienced the edge of the blast - that meant the spell had been aimed at someone else-

"Sire, are you hurt?" Guillaume asked, peering at him intently.

Alistair waved him off. "The emissary-"

"They're all dead."

Alistair looked at him, properly this time. Guillaume was covered in darkspawn blood, from his hair to his leather jerkin, but did not appear to be seriously wounded. "Anders," Alistair breathed, brushing past Guillaume. His limbs protested, loudly; he had probably sustained a few burns here and there, but it would have been nothing compared to-

He collapsed next to Anders' body. It seemed the mage had managed to construct some sort of shield in time - only part of his robes were damaged, but there was a smell of charred flesh in the air that seemed distinct from the stench of burnt horse meat. "Anders," he said urgently, taking off his gauntlets. He rolled the mage's body over, and then drew back in shock as a furry shape emerged from Anders' robes, purring deeply.

"What in Andraste's name-"

Alistair knew power when he felt it. This was not ordinary magic, though - not like the magic taught to Tower mages, or even the old, wild magic, wielded by witches or the Dalish keepers. This felt more like... like when they were in the Circle, facing the Sloth demon, or fighting Uldred - something not quite human.

"Mraw?" Ser Pounce-a-lot batted gently at Anders' cheek with one paw, before nudging him with his nose.

Anders groaned, blinking rapidly. He looked up as Pounce stared back at him, the cat's whiskers brushing his face. "Ow," Anders said.

Alistair couldn't believe it. He pinched himself, sure that he had been mistaken, but his senses couldn't have lied to him - there was power here, magic, and it certainly hadn't come from Anders. Even though it seemed impossible, that cat had somehow brought his master back from the brink of death.

"Thank the Maker you're alive." Alistair rocked back on his heels, picking up his sword once more, the point wavering as he held it. "But Andraste's sword, Anders, what kind of forsaken creature is that cat?"

Anders sighed theatrically, and sat up with a wince. "I should've known it would come to this. Got any lyrium?"

"Here," Guillaume said, tossing Anders a vial.

The mage caught it, but barely; his hands shook as he chugged the liquid. He glanced at them both with a practised eye. "You're hurt," he told Alistair. "I can seal the wound, but you'll have to wait until nightfall before I can heal it properly-"

Alistair frowned. "Don't be an idiot - tend to yourself first. We have poultices."

"I'm fine. See?" Anders tweaked his robe to show his uninjured leg beneath the burnt fabric. Pounce took the opportunity to rub his nose against Anders' palms.

Alistair exchanged looks with Guillaume. "What happened here, Anders? I felt something - your cat did something."

Anders looked almost sheepish. "Let me help you first-"

"Don't change the subject-"

Healing energy surrounded Alistair, and he curbed the impulse to resist as it sank into his skin, soothing the flesh beneath his armour. He closed his eyes briefly. "Thanks."

Ser Pounce-a-lot settled calmly into Anders' lap, curling up like a snail.

"He's a normal cat," Anders said, scratching said cat behind the ears. "He's just... well, it's like how Oghren told me that Wynne had this kind of spirit inside her-"

"You're telling me that your cat is an abomination," Alistair said. Demons occasionally took non-humanoid bodies - the walking trees in the Brecilian Forest were proof enough of that, and the desire demon in Honnleath Village.

"Shhh!" Anders covered Ser Pounce-a-lot's ears with his hands. "You'll upset him."

"How long has this been going on for?" Guillaume asked, folding his arms over his chest. "Gerod did not mention any kind of cat-demon in his reports."

Anders chewed his lip. "It happened after we killed the Mother, I think. You know, the sentient broodmother?"

Alistair vaguely remembered some letters to that effect, but there had been other things on his mind at the time - the sacking of the fortress and the near-destruction of Amaranthine amongst them.

"Poor Pounce got badly injured on that mission. Normal spells didn't work on him; healing animals isn't quite the same as healing people, you know. But then he... got better. Quickly. I was impressed."

"What would a demon want with your cat?" Alistair asked, his eyes narrowed.

"It's not a demon. You know some Fade spirits are benevolent - like Justice? Spirit healers and all? I think Pounce probably has some kind of deal with one of them. He's still the same cat though-"

"We should kill him." Guillaume's hands went to the hilts of his blades.

Alistair silently groaned.

"I'd like to see you try." The air around Anders tasted briefly of magic, sharp and heady, like the smell of a summer storm.

"Gentlemen, please." Alistair stepped in between them, his hands outstretched. "No one's killing anyone. Look, Anders is a mage. He knows the risks, and if the cat hasn't gone on a killing spree in the last few years, there's no reason he's going to do so now."

Guillaume's lip curled. His hands did not shift from his blades, but neither did he make any move to attack. It was a start, at least.

"What I'm really worried about," Alistair said, "is what's going on with the darkspawn. Did either of you sense any of them?"

Both men shook their heads.

"Neither did I. And they weren't even trying to kill me, either - they wanted prisoners."

"They wanted you," Anders countered. "They weren't holding back on me. Or him," he said, with a nod to Guillaume.

Somehow, that made it even worse. "But darkspawn don't care about politics," Alistair argued. "How would they even know who I am?"

Anders scrambled to his feet, Pounce springing out of his lap. "Let's search the corpses and find out." Pounce wound around his ankles, and Anders scooped up the cat before heading towards the bodies.

Guillaume frowned, looking at Alistair. "We are not safe with that demon in our midst."

"It's probably not a demon." Alistair sighed, accepting Guillaume's hand for support as he climbed to his feet. "Look, I don't like this any more than you do, but the fact is we need Anders and he's not going to let anything happen to that cat. Until something happens, we're just going to have to put up with it."

Guillaume muttered something under his breath that did not sound complimentary.

"I'm sure Anders knows what he's doing," Alistair said, to no one in particular.

"Andraste's sodding knicker-weasels!"

At Anders' shout, the two men sprinted towards the mage, Alistair cursing the weight of his armour for the second time that day.

When he reached the others, they were huddled around the body of the darkspawn emissary. On second glance, it really was an odd shape for a darkspawn, and its robes could be barely dignified with that term, consisting of little more than some kind of short tunic.

"Is that a ghoul?" Alistair asked, as Guillaume rolled the corpse onto its back. The corruption on its skin was only patchy, mottling its skin in much the same fashion as one would see in a newly tainted victim. The shape of the person it had once been was still discernible - an elf, it seemed, from the ears, and a woman at that, judging by the stature.

"They did not turn her into a broodmother. That is unusual, is it not?" Guillaume asked.

Anders knelt by the body. He traced a patch of skin on her face, untouched by the taint. "She was a warden," he said, in a voice so low as to be barely audible.

Alistair breathed in sharply. "You can't be sure-"

"I knew her." Anders wiped a splash of blood from her cheek with his thumb, revealing a faint pattern of lines inked into the skin. "See? Dalish. Poor old Velanna. Her fireballs were always bigger than mine," he said as he closed her eyes, uncaring of the taint that clung to her. He rose shakily to his feet, and Alistair stepped back to give him room. "This is really, really bad." Anders shook his head, and Pounce agreed with a meow.

"Let's burn the bodies and leave. Then we can talk," Guillaume said, his voice hoarse.

Anders nodded mutely, and they set to work in silence, each man lost in his own thoughts.

.

.

.

"She was at the Vigil when it fell," Anders told them, once they had all been healed and fed, the food tasting of blood and ashes. With the loss of the horses went most of their supplies, save what had been left at camp. After disposing of the bodies they had walked in silence until it grew too dark to go further, making camp with a dismal lack of chatter. Anders and Guillaume had circled the perimeter, setting traps both magical and mundane.

"Gerod reported that she was dead," Guillaume said.

"Hmm." Anders looked thoughtful, his eyes clouded. "He wasn't there - neither was I. No one ever found a body, in any case.

"You said her sister was taken by the darkspawn," Alistair prompted. "Do you think Velanna chose to seek them out?"

A look of disgust crossed Anders' face. "I don't know. Maybe. When we were taken by the Architect, she seemed almost upset about leaving."

"What would darkspawn want with the King of Ferelden?" Guillaume asked.

"Oh, he's not just the king. Are you?"

Alistair did not like the way that both men turned to look at him, their expressions expectant, wary. "You mean the Old God and I? Are we related? Well yes - we are. Although in all of nine years, I've never once received a card for Satinalia."

Anders whistled. "I heard her mother was absolutely ravishing-"

"I don't want to talk about it." Alistair felt the blood rising to his face and gritted his teeth, willing it to recede. "In any case, what does this have to do with the darkspawn? There weren't any darkspawn at Redcliffe, were there?"

"That does not exclude the possibility that the two factions are working together. The archdemon controlled darkspawn. How are we to know that the false god is not doing the same?" Guillaume asked.

Now that was a horrifying image: Morrigan and her Old God baby with entire armies of darkspawn at their beck and call, burning his country to the ground. Alistair shuddered.

"I have more bad news," Anders said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small package and unwrapped it, revealing a thin sheaf of parchment, the edges partially charred and flaking.

Guillaume's face went pale. "Are those Connor's-"

"Notes on how to defeat the Old God? How ever did you guess!"

Alistair frowned. "They don't look that damaged. Can't you just fill in the blanks?"

Anders glanced at him as though he had swallowed a lemon. "Fill in the blanks? Like a recipe for pudding? 'Oh, they probably just meant a pinch of cinnamon and a dollop of cream'... Magic isn't like that! It doesn't work that way."

From the expression on Guillaume's face, he seemed prepared to throttle Anders with his bare hands. "It can't be all that bad," Alistair soothed, watching Guillaume from his peripheral vision. "Most of it is still readable, right?"

"Well most, but-"

"You told me you warded the instructions against damage!" Guillaume shouted.

"Against damp and insects and theft, yes. Fireballs? Not so much. This is how combat with mages is supposed to go: I stay at the back, and you, my meat shields, hang around in the front to draw the nasty enemy mages' attention-"

"Anders, be quiet," Alistair said. "There's no helping it. You'll just have to work with what you have."

"I'm not doing anything. I told you I wouldn't do blood magic, even if I knew how. Ugh, the scarring alone-"

"I know someone," Alistair interrupted, his voice slicing through Anders' babble with ease. "Not far from here, I think."

Guillaume frowned. "The King of Ferelden consorts with blood mages?"

Alistair's mouth quirked into a grim smile. "Relax. He's a warden blood mage."

"That does not excuse-"

"The Chantry here uses blood mages, so if you're trying to take the high ground, you're out of luck," Anders said. "Anyway, where is this mysterious person?"

"Soldier's Peak, north-west of here." There was a pause, and then Alistair continued, "at least, I hope he's still there."

They sat in silence for a moment, the stillness broken only by the crackling of the fire. "Sounds fun," Anders said at last. "Now as your healer, I think you should get some rest. I'll take first watch-"

"No. I will," Guillaume said, brushing past him.

Anders shrugged. "Suit yourself." He disappeared into his tent, the cat slinking in after him. Alistair watched them both, wondering if Guillaume was right about the demon - but demons didn't tend to preserve the lives of anyone whose bodies they weren't currently inhabiting.

Perhaps that was a clue in itself. Or perhaps he was just being paranoid.

"You should sleep," Guillaume said, settling down near the fire.

Alistair only grunted a response, before crawling into his own tent and nestling down in the blankets. He swatted at a stray insect near his ear; whatever else it had wrong with it, palace life was at least much more comfortable than the alternatives.

Sleep came too soon for his liking, filled with dark-haired little girls whose sweet, mocking laughter followed him all through the Fade into daybreak, when he woke covered in sweat, his heart racing at a thousand miles an hour, his breath short in his throat.

Maker's balls.

He had slept in. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, Auroraas, interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, Victorita9, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision.
> 
> Velanna's situation owes much to [The Fate of the Clanless Keeper,](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6368595/) an interesting short by wisecracknmama about what happened to Velanna after Awakening. See, it may appear that I have a thing for throwing NPCs whose names start with 'V' to the darkspawn, but it's all just coincidence, I swear.
> 
> I only discovered Pounce's magical resurrecting abilities after finishing Awakening. As far as I know, the game never offers an explanation. It's a little bit strange, as well as game-breaking, assuming you take Anders in your party (and really, why wouldn't you?)


	31. Descent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

**Recap - Sylvanna - chapter 29**

[Redcliffe Castle]

Hawk!Morrigan: *returns*

Sylvanna: Where did all that blood come from? No, don't tell me. I don't really want to know.

Morrigan: I believe I may owe you an apology-

Sylvanna: You and Ishantha are leaving for South Reach. Tomorrow.

Morrigan: What? I certainly did not consent to this.

Sylvanna: Oh, you and your consent issues.

Morrigan: 'Tis not amusing. Stop laughing.

Sylvanna: Would you rather I threw something at your head?

Morrigan: Not particularly-

Sylvanna: How about this quaint cultural artefact from Orlais? I think mine is bigger than Alistair's, wouldn't you agree?

Morrigan: O_o

Sylvanna: Kill me. Kill me now!

Morrigan: Fine.

[Later]

Sylvanna: Huh. That was fun. Why did it take us ten years to figure that out?

Morrigan: So, South Reach-

Sylvanna: You're still going. Without me.

Morrigan: But-

Sylvanna: Goodnight, Morrigan.

Morrigan: :-(

* * *

**Redcliffe**

Tomas still remembered the day he first met the warden. He had expected someone... taller. Someone more like the giant standing behind her, all gleaming muscles and stern eyes, or even the blond knight with the worried smile. Still, any doubts he may have had about her prowess were crushed that night, along with the living dead.

He had used a sword before that day, of course; he had been training since he was a boy, but never - never like that. He remembered the night well: the corpses swarming past the barricades, some of them still alight, the flames casting eerie shadows over the tableau, and that sound, that moaning, groaning noise that continued even after the bodies had been bludgeoned to pieces, or skewered with arrows.

His first kill had been Goodwife Aislyn, Fulcher's daughter. She used to work up at the castle, in the kitchen, and loved to bring back the latest gossip about the Guerrins. _My lady's hoping for another baby, poor lass, but she lost the last two, didn't she? No wonder she's been hanging around Bann Teagan - if you ask me, there must be something wrong with her husband, the old codger-_

When he saw Aislyn that night, she had been nothing more than skin and bones, her hair falling out of her skull in clumps. He had swung at her, blindly, and one of her arms had thumped onto the ground. He had stabbed her again and again, each movement accompanied by the sound of bones splintering like dry timber.

"Tomas," a voice had told him, "Tomas, you can stop now. Good job."

She had touched him, infusing his limbs with strength, the pain draining away where Aislyn's broken teeth had bitten deep into his shoulder. When next he looked up, the warden had already moved on, slipping between the lines like a silent shadow.

He had travelled with her out of Redcliffe in the end, into Denerim, through the ruined gates, through the hordes of darkspawn. Cailan's brother may have ridden at the head of her armies, but it was the mage warden whom Tomas followed to the burning city and back.

He stood before her now, his helm cradled in his arm, sweating beneath his mail. He waited politely for a few moments and then coughed.

She glanced up from her desk. "Oh, I'm sorry, Tomas. I didn't see you."

The days had been unusually quiet since the other had left, taking her daughter with her. Tomas liked quiet best, when there was nothing more serious to deal with than a group of rowdy drunks disturbing the tavern or a flock of sheep to rescue from the predations of wandering wolves.

"Begging your pardon, Warden, but there's been reports of bandits on the Lyulf farmstead. Nothing my men can't handle, but you did ask to be informed of any activity-"

She seemed almost pleased. "I'll come right away."

She was quiet during the walk over, and he had not the courage to ask her what she was thinking, or why a continual frown creased her forehead. Behind them, the rest of the men laughed and joked amongst themselves, none of them expecting any real danger. Since the siege, few travellers had dared approach Redcliffe - the only merchants who could be coaxed into trade were the occasional dwarf or qunari, who apparently cared little for rumours of a maleficar god.

When they reached the farmstead, it was deserted; even the livestock had vanished, the chicken coop empty of everything save a few feathers. His men searched the house, tramping into the attic and checking in the basement, while the warden waited outside, her eyes closed, face tilted towards the sky as if she were sensing something beyond the reach of human perception.

Dane was the first out of the house. "Nothing," he said, and Tomas sighed, turning to the warden to report.

She wasn't there.

"Warden?" he called, suddenly nervous; he was certain she could look after herself, of course, but strange things happened around Redcliffe, and if he lost her then the other one would have his balls on a platter for sure.

Dane blew out air between his teeth and pointed. "She went over there," he said, gesturing to the area beyond the house.

"Bring the others," Tomas said, and began to jog. He could see her now, a small shape disappearing before him over the fields, heading towards where the trees grew dense.

She was standing before a narrow cave entrance when he caught up to her.

"It's just some animal's den," he said, "bear maybe, or one of them giant spiders-"

"I'm going in," she said without turning to look at him, and before he could grab her arm or issue a warning, she disappeared into the darkness.

Dane reached his side. "In there?" he asked, frowning. "I don't like this. The house wasn't even sacked for coin. Bandits wouldn't have left behind good bread, neither-"

Tomas pointed towards the brush. "Get the men to make some torches. We follow where she leads."

Dane sighed, but walked away; Tomas searched his pockets for a flint and steel, patiently coaxing a spark from dry twigs. Once the torches were made and lit, they formed a single file and ventured inside, Tomas taking point.

.

.

.

They walked for several minutes without seeing signs of any other life, the flames revealing nothing more than earthen walls and floors. Eventually the passageway opened up into a large cavern and he caught sight of the warden, standing at the opposite end of the cave. A greenish light hovered at her shoulder, casting flickering shadows where she stood.

Tomas passed his torch to the man behind him and jogged up to her, his footsteps sounding overly loud in the echoing chamber.

"Can you hear her?" the warden asked, staring straight ahead. Before them stretched another corridor, even narrower than the initial entryway.

Tomas concentrated and tried to listen. The murmurs of the men behind him were the loudest sounds, accompanied by the distant dripping of water. "I can't hear anything," he admitted.

The warden drifted away from him again, taking her light with her; he followed closely on her heels this time, almost stepping on her feet in the shadows.

He could hear something now - some kind of thwacking noise; a rhythmic slap that varied in volume and intensity, sometimes sounding far away and at other times seeming to emanate from the very walls around them. "We should wait for the others to catch up," he suggested, his eyes scanning the darkness.

The warden ignored him, increasing her pace until it was hard for Tomas to keep up. The sounds grew more frequent, like the beat of a drum slowly growing to a crescendo.

"Warden," he tried again. "Warden-"

He reached out to her, his fingers closing around her wrist. There was a smell in the air like the aftermath of a storm, and he gave a startled yelp as pain ran through his arm, a strong gust of wind tossing him onto his back.

When he next looked up, he saw Dane's concerned face peering down at him. "Where is she?" he croaked, propping himself onto his feet.

Dane frowned. "We thought she was with you."

Something dripped onto Tomas' head, and he touched his hair, feeling a sticky residue. Bringing his fingers to his face, he saw darkness clinging to them and smelled an odour like rotting meat. He looked up. There was a black patch on the ceiling, glistening in the light of the torches; liquid continued to drip down as he backed away from the stain.

"Let's get the warden and leave," he ordered. "Quickly-"

"Ser!" someone shouted, down from the cavern. "Ser, you should come and see this!"

Tomas silently cursed. He looked down the route where the warden had disappeared. "What is it?"

A series of muffled voices called back to him, the words indistinct. Tomas glanced back towards the chamber, gnawing on his bottom lip. "This had better be good," he muttered, waving at Dane to follow him.

The rest of his men were huddled in a corner of the large chamber like a flock of old ladies, whispering and muttering to themselves. A gap opened up in the circle, and Tomas stepped through, the ranks closing in behind him.

Through a crack in the cavern floor, a fleshy protrusion emerged, thicker at the base than the tip, like a mandrake root. Its skin glistened white and rubbery, waving from side to side with something clutched tightly within its grip. Tomas unsheathed his sword, and the men nearby stepped back to give him room; he sliced into the limb, shielding his face from the ensuing spurt of dark blood. The wounded thing disappeared down into the floor, and far away, Tomas thought he could hear something scream.

The remaining section flopped a bit, bleeding out. The smell was terrible, like something dead left in the summer sun for three days. Tomas prodded it with the tip of his sword when it ceased moving, one of the men holding a torch above the object it had dropped.

For a while, no one spoke. Then Dane cleared his throat. "I recognise that scar. That's Farmer Lyulf's hand."

Tomas straightened. "We need to find the warden-"

He was interrupted by a rumbling noise, coming from the far passageway. Dust began to drift down from the ceiling, followed by larger clods of dirt. The sound grew louder.

"Everybody out. Now!" he ordered.

The men didn't need to be told twice; the falling lumps were now the size of a calf's head, and startled cries could be heard when they grazed the unwary.

Dane hesitated when Tomas failed to head towards the entrance. "Where're you going?"

Tomas grabbed one of the discarded torches, holding his naked sword in his other hand. "She's still in there."

"Don't be an idiot-"

Dane grabbed the back of his tunic, and a sudden shockwave rippling through the floor knocked them both off their feet. The torch fell from Tomas' grasp, smashed a moment later by a piece of the collapsing ceiling.

"Tomas - my ankle!"

He groped around in the dark, finding Dane's hand by blind chance. "Can you stand?"

"I - I'm fine-"

Tomas helped him to his feet, placing Dane's arm around his shoulders. They headed towards the entrance with painfully slow steps, Dane's breath wheezing in his throat.

"Steady," Tomas soothed, as the voices of the other men grew louder. "Almost there..."

They stumbled out together into the sunlight, both coughing up dust from their lungs. Tomas still had his sword clutched tightly in his hand, and he looked down at it. The blood from the hacked limb looked almost black in the light, oozing down the length of his blade.

"Everyone safe?"

"Warin has a broken leg, and Dane's hurt, but we all made it out."

All of them bar one. Tomas took one last look at the cave mouth; dwarves with their explosives could maybe dig another way in, but Deity only knew how long that would take, and whether there would be anything left to save at the end...

"Let's head back," he said finally. "I'll send a messenger to South Reach, taking full responsibility to the accident."

None of them met his eye on the return walk to the village. _The other's gonna skin me alive_, he thought feverishly.

The mother of the Child God was not known for her mercy.

.

.

.

She hungers.

In the damp, in the darkness, the hunger is as much a comfort as a curse. It breaks through her waking slumber like an old friend, grasping claws seeking relief.

He teaches her to control it. He gives her words, thoughts, to shape the chaos of her flesh and dull the sick-sharp pain of transformation. He teaches her how to drowse between feedings so that the voices fade and all she hears is the Song, lulling her to sleep.

The smell wakes her. The smell of new grass and open air, of fresh dirt.

The smell of the taint.

Elf flesh.

She has not tasted that smell for what feels like years and years. She raises her head, breathing it in, opening her mouth to swallow the scent.

The last elf she savoured was also tainted. It happened when Master's servant came with her meal. She pretended to be asleep, her flesh aquiver with her snores. She felt his footsteps, one two, one two, sending tremors through the ground. She smelled his breath as he drew near, and when he turned to leave, she tripped him with her long, pale limbs.

She ate three of his fingers before he fled, screaming.

She runs a tongue over her teeth, recalling the sensation of bone crunching between them. Elves taste a little like the Song. Like what Master calls _old magic_.

When her children are born, they will serve her. They will feed her: elf flesh and stone-dusted dwarves and plump, tender man-children. She has a plan - forged from Master's words, from his whisperings. A plan for her nest. For her larder.

_Self-sufficiency, _he tells her, _is the key_. She cares little for _population management_ and _replacement rates_, but knows she must have meat. Sweet, untainted meat, fresh and writhing, soft and naked with bones that go pop when she tugs on their limbs.

Master warns her that she cannot have elves, nor dwarves, nor men for her larder; that two-legged females are too valuable to waste as food.

She disagrees.

The smell grows stronger now, and a trail of drool slides down over her chin as she licks her lips in anticipation. She will have this one too, tainted as it is; she will have it before Master can come and tell her no.

The waiting is intolerable.

Its footsteps draw near, and she shifts eagerly, imagining its soft warm heart beating blood over her hands. She will eat its eyes first, she decides, popping them with her teeth until the juices run hot and sweet in her mouth-

Light flares in her chamber, and she wails, limbs flailing to protect her sight from the burning glare. The elf scrambles, its movements sending vibrations through the floor. She lashes out, seeking to grasp her meal before it can escape.

Her limbs snake around an arm, and she clutches it triumphantly, hearing the snap of breaking bones. Screams hurt her ears, so accustomed to the silence, and then she hears Master's servant, weaving magic with his voice.

Cold settles into her limbs, sealing her jaw, her hands. She feels the elf falling from her grasp, unable to even whimper as her meal slithers out of reach. Master's servant takes her elf (her elf) away, his footsteps heavy as he leaves her chamber.

A moment later, and his magic dissipates. She screams her fury until the walls shake, her limbs writhing.

When he returns, she will take more than his fingers; this she swears.

.

.

.

When she woke, the world still resembled the Fade; tiny specks swam before her, shadows drifting across her vision. Her overwhelming impression was one of brown, amorphous blobs, too vague to be categorised into distinct shapes, infused with the stench of rotting meat.

The pain was sharper here, giving lie to the thought that she was still asleep. Sylvanna shifted, tentatively, and then wished she had remained still. Her arm sang with agony, down through her wrist and fingers and then up all the way across her shoulder, and she bit her tongue, hard, a whimper escaping her lips.

She groped blindly for the depths of her power, steadying her breaths as she searched.

Nothing.

"I told you she would be unsuitable."

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. She racked her memories. Someone met during the Blight? No - it must have been earlier.

"Patience, Eadric. We may still find a use for her."

"This is too risky."

"I disagree. The greater risk is to do nothing. Surely you must be able to see that?"

Her veins tingled, fraught with danger and anticipation. A face came into view, confirming her worst suspicions.

"You," she croaked, swallowing blood. "I know you-"

"Yes." The darkspawn took her wrists, and she stared, unseeing, as he closed a pair of manacles around them. The steel tumblers slotted together with an eerie click.

"I am the Architect."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: Auroraas, interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision.
> 
> A BSN post by Gaider said that darkspawn don't require feeding and instead live off some sort of magical darkness (paraphrasing. This idea sits uncomfortably with me, but oh well). The same thread mentioned that broodmothers are kind of specialised ghouls, and ghouls, presumably, still need to eat.


	32. The Ties that Bind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta and for helping with everything else, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - Morrigan, Ishantha - chapters 23, 29 **

[Redcliffe castle]

Sylvanna: *stabs Morrigan*

Ishantha: *resurrects Morrigan*

Morrigan: What do you mean, you 'fixed' the warden?

Ishantha: I mean that everything will work out to my satisfaction. I mean, your satisfaction!

[Later]

Morrigan: I have no desire to travel with my little witch of a daughter.

Sylvanna: Tough cookies.

Morrigan: This is a most inopportune moment for you to grow a spine.

Sylvanna: Isn't there something else you want to say to me?

Morrigan: Perhaps. *clears throat* Sylvanna, I-

Sylvanna: *snores*

Morrigan: I suppose it could wait another twenty chapters.

* * *

**South Reach**

Ishantha had taken her punishment surprisingly well, submitting without a tantrum or even a protestation of her innocence. It was all Morrigan could think about on the road to South Reach, each time she flexed her aching hand. Were she more adept at self-deception, she could have attributed her daughter's deference to years of constant, sensible discipline.

As it was, Ishantha's humility disturbed her.

"_It won't happen again_," she had insisted, her head bowed in contrition. "_Of course you were right. I should've listened to you, Mother_."

There was nothing that Morrigan could put her finger upon and say there - that was the cause of the lie. In other circumstances, perhaps, she would have been proud. At Ishantha's age, she had never been so proficient at concealing her secrets from Flemeth.

It would have been easier had she stayed at Redcliffe. As much as Morrigan loathed to admit it, she had grown accustomed to a certain way of life, one that did not involve travelling without the aid of magic. She had forgotten just how unpleasant it was - the persistent chatter of the Dalish and their songs, her daughter often joining in with her high-pitched voice. It was enough to give anyone a full-blown migraine.

At least now it was over. She had commandeered the most far-flung room in the castle, accessible only by a narrow flight of stairs. The room itself was drafty and stank of mildew, but Morrigan had endured far worse, and the additional privacy was more than adequate compensation.

She heard footsteps on the stairs even before she had finished unpacking, and she rolled her eyes skywards with a sigh. Ishantha had told her that she was expecting a delivery in South Reach. Why her daughter had to appear in person to collect it was a mystery. Wasn't that the entire point of having servants?

"I am not accepting visitors," she called out when the footsteps came closer. "We may speak on the morrow."

The footsteps paused before her door, and Morrigan turned back to her luggage, waiting to hear the sound of them descending and leaving her in peace.

They did not.

"Mother, you must come now!" Ishantha insisted from behind the door. "It's finally here!"

Morrigan heaved a deep sigh. "What is here?"

There was a scuffling noise, and then Ishantha opened the door. "Hurry now," she said. "It's only Mother. She won't bite."

"I told you, no more strays-" Morrigan stopped. Attached to Ishantha's hand was a child. A very small, very blonde child.

"I'm so glad Father repaired the road near Lothering," Ishantha said. "Otherwise we wouldn't have arrived in time." She gave the child a little push on her back. "Go on - where are your manners?"

"'llo," the girl said in a whisper. She stared up at Morrigan with a grubby thumb in her mouth.

Morrigan knew it. She knew allowing Ishantha to play with Roslyn had been a mistake; now the child was enamoured of the fool notion that she could go around collecting every arl's daughter for her own amusement. "What is this madness? Return her to her mother at once."

The girl's lower lip began to quiver. "Haven't got one," she said, and then she started to snivel most unbecomingly.

"There, there," Ishantha soothed, crouching down and dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief. "You can share mine. We are sisters, after all."

Morrigan felt as though her breath had been stripped from her lungs. She stared at the little girl more closely; it was impossible to be sure with only her memories to guide her, but perhaps she did bear a slight resemblance to the face stamped upon each coin in Ferelden. "You do not mean to tell me that she-"

"Yes." Ishantha rose from her crouch, a look of such gleeful anticipation on her face that it made Morrigan's blood run cold.

She looked down at the girl again. Wide blue eyes peered up at her, no longer shy. "Come here," Morrigan ordered, and the girl tottered towards her. She lifted her up and deposited her on the bed. "Remove that thing from your mouth at once," she said, and the girl obeyed, hiding her hand behind her back. Morrigan took out a cloth and muttered a charm over it, drawing out the moisture in the surrounding air until the rag was damp. She scrubbed at the girl's face and hands, sighing at the amount of dirt beneath her fingernails.

"What a filthy little child you are," Morrigan said.

The girl squirmed at her ministrations. "The road from Denerim was dusty," she protested. The thumb hovered close to her mouth again, and Morrigan batted it away.

"We'll have none of that. Has your father not informed you how repulsive it is to see a child sucking upon their thumbs?"

The girl thought about it for a moment, and then shook her head.

"Imbecile," Morrigan muttered under her breath. She took another look. Small children were as foreign to her as the Chant of Light; Ishantha had been small once, but never... innocent. This girl was as guileless as a newborn calf, it seemed, and possibly as brainless as one too, if her father was anything to go by.

"You cannot mean to keep her here," she said to her daughter, who watched her from the opposite side of the room with a strange, satisfied smile upon her face. "'Twould be most impractical."

"I intend to do all that and more." Ishantha came towards the bed, sitting down on the other side of the girl. "And Her Royal Highness does not object. Do you?"

The girl shook her head.

Morrigan sighed, and in her mind, very slowly counted to ten.

.

.

.

She entrusted custody of the girl to some of the guards from Redcliffe; the people at South Reach were an unknown quantity, and she would not leave a child to their care unless there was no other alternative.

"Come along now, Ellie," one of the guardswomen said, and the girl took her hand.

"Is that what he called her?" Morrigan asked, as Ishantha followed her back to her room.

"Eleanor Sylvia Theirin," Ishantha supplied. "It sounds dreadful, doesn't it? We'll have to help her pick a new name when she comes of age."

"We will do no such thing-"

Ishantha clambered onto Morrigan's bed, resting her head in her hands. "I thought you'd be pleased," she said, plucking at the coverlet. "Isn't she cute? I'm so glad I found her before she grew too set in her ways."

_Grown daughters are not nearly so malleable._ Flemeth's words echoed in her mind like an omen, dredging up fears Morrigan had thought long vanquished. "However did you contrive such a ridiculous scheme?"

"Oh, it's perfectly brilliant!" Ishantha launched into a rather convoluted explanation about the king leaving Denerim, blaming everything on Orlesian trickery, and a chancellor with Tevinter blood seizing the regency. Morrigan was only half listening, her mind filled with the uncomfortable images of Ishantha borrowing the skins of other little girls as though she were trying on dresses.

"So you see, he'll have to come for her, and when he does, he'll realise that he loves me best after all, and then we can all live happily ever after! Isn't that a wonderful plan?"

One part of that was true: Alistair would come for his princess, no matter what. Morrigan would have done no less in his position. "And after that?"

"Oh, we'll probably have to kill Hernays," Ishantha waved a hand vaguely. "I suppose Father can have his throne back, but he'll have to name Eleanor as heir. When she's of age, she can take over and she'll be ever so easy to manage compared with Father."

"Why did you not consult me before deciding upon this course of action?" Morrigan asked, her face carefully blank.

"I wanted it to be a surprise! And you were very surprised, were you not?"

She was.

Ishantha put her chin in one hand, drawing out an imaginary map on the bedspread with a fingertip. "After ensuring Father's compliance, I thought we could do as you suggested and move to Tevinter. I'd like to explore some of the ruins there, and they've probably made interesting advances in blood magic over the last few centuries. Wouldn't you like that?"

Morrigan thought that she might, if only to get away from this country. Sylvanna had been right, as much as she loathed to admit it - there were too many ties here. "You will not harm the girl, will you?"

Ishantha's eyes widened. "Of course not! I would never hurt her. She is blood, after all."

Morrigan felt the onset of another migraine and she put her fingers to her temples, massaging the ache. Sylvanna should have come with them to South Reach. Coping with this would have been so much easier with her present to offer reasons why little old gods shouldn't really manipulate children for their own political gain, at least not while said children were barely out of their swaddling clothes.

Someone knocked on the door for the second time that evening. "Miladies?"

"Will there be no peace this night?" Morrigan snarled.

"There's a messenger come from Redcliffe, Milady. Said something about the warden-"

Morrigan's fingers tightened around her forehead until she briefly saw stars. The endless threads of doubts crept back into her mind, slithering over her thoughts until she was smothered. She pulled the door open. "Take me to them. Now."

She practically flew down the narrow stairs, her blood humming with a sense of disquiet. It was probably nothing, she tried to tell herself. Probably just a courtesy message for the Arl of South Reach, of not the slightest bit of interest to her at all-

The messenger was wolfing down a plate of food when she arrived in the servants' quarters. "My lady!" the elf said, clambering to his feet and swallowing. "I did not expect you to be still awake-"

"What news?"

The elf swallowed again. "A patrol went out a few days ago, and there was a cave-in near one of the farmsteads. Everyone else got out, but the warden-"

Morrigan dug her nails into the palms of her hands, lest she release a spell to stop the idiot from babbling. "What did she think she was she doing, the fool?"

The elf glanced at the door as Ishantha entered, following her mother at a more sedate pace, then returned his attention to Morrigan. "Ser Tomas said there were reports of bandits, but when they arrived, they couldn't find anyone. They did find... pieces, though. They were trying to dig another passageway down where the caverns connected, last I heard."

"Pieces," Morrigan repeated, her eyes narrowed. "'Twas not the work of bandits, then."

"Ser Tomas didn't wish to alarm people, but there were rumoured to be darkspawn-"

Morrigan rounded upon her daughter. "You informed me that the situation remained under control!"

Ishantha raised her hands as though she could deflect her mother's wrath. "I prevented her from deliberately seeking out the darkspawn. This wasn't my fault-"

Fury rose in Morrigan's throat until mana arced over her skin, lifting the ends of her hair. "Enough." She strode past the elf, heading towards the door, until a sudden tug on her robes made her stop.

"Where are you going?" Ishantha asked, clutching a fistful of Morrigan's skirt.

Morrigan gave her robes a sharp pull, freeing them from her daughter's grasp. "You object, I take it? Speak quickly then; I have no wish to tarry."

Ishantha waved her hand, allowing the messenger to escape. The elf slunk past Morrigan, and she ignored him, her eyes focused on her daughter. "I didn't make this happen," Ishantha insisted. "I hate the darkspawn as much as anyone. But Mother, what could you do? Two, three days is a long time for anyone to remain underground. It's too late. I need you here."

"You seem to be managing perfectly well on your own," Morrigan said. "My presence or absence makes no difference to your actions."

She continued towards the door, but Ishantha reached it before her, blocking the way. "She betrayed you!" Ishantha protested. "I didn't want to tell you, but it's true. See?" she rifled through her apron pockets, finally bringing out a piece of parchment and giving it to Morrigan.

She opened it, scanning the brief missive.

_Ser PAL_  
_  
The griffons must fly the field by noon. Leave only the Maker's faithful._

_Your Friend_

"What is this?" Morrigan asked.

"Sylvanna was communicating with the enemy during the siege," Ishantha said. "I made sure they never received her message. Imagine if all the wardens had withdrawn! It would have ruined everything."

The story sounded ridiculous. If Sylvanna had wished to betray them, she would have done so prior to the siege. Her audience with the king would have been a perfect opportunity, and yet nothing had come of that meeting, had it? "This proves nothing. Move or be forced to," Morrigan ordered.

Ishantha did not budge an inch. "What about the time she killed you? Surely you remember that?"

Morrigan stopped scanning the room for an alternative exit route, turning to glare at her daughter. "'Twas your own fault!"

Ishantha scowled. "I never planted the idea," she said. Her eyes softened, her voice pleading. "I could erase your memories of her."

Morrigan inhaled sharply. "You will do no such thing." Her hands clenched into fists, and she forced them to relax. "Never forget where you came from, Ishantha. I am your mother. No one will ever love you as I do."

Her daughter's eyes filled with tears. "That's why I need you to stay," she said. She reached out, and Morrigan straightened, stepping backwards to avoid her touch. "Don't you see? All this trouble started when she came."

On occasion, there had been times when such thoughts had run through Morrigan's mind. It would have simplified Ishantha's conception considerably had she not informed Sylvanna about Flemeth's plan. Trying to avoid her delusional former lover as she trekked through the Frostback Mountains, heavy with child and unable to shapeshift, had led to some of the most miserable months in Morrigan's life.

"When Father comes, we'll be an entire family at last," Ishantha said. She reached out for Morrigan's hand again, and this time she let her take it. "When Father comes, everything will be different," Ishantha repeated.

Morrigan glanced down. How small her daughter looked. How fragile.

"I thought maybe you'd consider having another," Ishantha continued. "I've always wanted a brother, you know, and we really ought to replace the archon in Tevinter with someone we can trust."

Morrigan could feel the weight of the child in her arms already, his tiny skull cradled against her breast. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell of his hair, and at her shoulder, his father sighed, drawing her into an embrace-

"No," Morrigan said, jerking back. She freed her hands, in spite of Ishantha's disapproving frown. The pressure was still there at the back of her mind, like an insistent thought yearning to be spoken. She shook her head, summoning the memory of Sylvanna - her voice, her scent, the texture of her skin, and the pressure relented, but did not dissipate.

"How dare you?" Morrigan pushed Ishantha aside, and the girl cried out in shock as she wrenched the door open.

"I was only trying to help!" Ishantha wailed, reached for Morrigan's arm. "Mother, please-"

Morrigan turned to her. "If you ever - ever attempt such trickery upon me again, you will have cause to regret it for the rest of your days," she snarled, her nails digging into Ishantha's hand. "Do not trifle with me, Daughter. I would cut your name from my heart without hesitation - this I swear."

Ishantha released her, tears streaming down her cheeks. If Morrigan closed her eyes, she knew she would feel that - that nightmare return, the heaviness in her breasts, the warm milky scent of newborn breath. She shuddered, lengthening her stride and casting mid-step, her concentration breaking and reforming as though she were only an apprentice, learning under Flemeth's watchful gaze.

"Mother, please don't go. Please."

Morrigan brought her palms together, magic pooling beneath her skin. She looked straight ahead, searching for the patch of sky beyond the open door. "Use the time apart to consider your transgressions," she instructed, without turning. "When next we meet, I expect you to have a full understanding of the enormity of your mistake."

There came no response, and that was all for the better. The spell coalesced at last, and she sighed with relief at this small, precious victory. In her liminal state, she felt the pressure receding from her skull like darkness flowing from her pores, dripping from the tips of her feathers.

The open sky embraced her with simple indifference, as familiar and welcome as a lover. Using her magic to evade those closest to her was becoming a habit.

_Dear, sweet Morrigan,_ Flemeth's voice crooned to her,_ you yearned for power, did you not? Why flee from it now?_

She beat her wings, listening to the wind whistling past. There would be a reckoning, when next she met her daughter - but not now, not whilst her mind was in such disarray, her will in tatters, with only the soothing rush of air to drown out her doubts.

Power, it seemed, always came with a price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With thanks to my reviewers: interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, Spikesagitta, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision. And extra thanks to wayfaringpanda for suggesting that I should punish Alistair for absconding. Ruining his life - it's my favourite hobby! :-)
> 
> On another note, there seems to be conflicting opinions about whether wardens can become broodmothers or not. My assumption is that they can (and in this instance, I'm probably going to ignore canon if it's contrary).
> 
> After all, there's probably a reason why there aren't many female wardens, as Alistair states (other than gender inequalities), and we know from The Calling etc. that wardens are resistant to the taint, but not immune (also that female wardens can sustain normal pregnancies). Possibly it takes longer/is more difficult to turn wardens, which may make them less desirable to darkspawn. Then again, who else other than a warden is going to be trudging around far enough into the depths of the Deep Roads (Legion of the Dead aside?) The darkspawn probably make do with what they can get.


	33. First Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> I'm accepting from novel canon that mages with their hands bound are effectively unable to cast. I don't think this contradicts anything in-game, but I'm not entirely certain. Alternatively you could assume that they're enchanted manacles, which seems to be a fanon trope.
> 
> I need to rec Ygrain33's wonderfully nuanced depiction of Morrigan/m!Cousland in 'Succumbing to Weakness,' and the less romance-oriented (but still amazing - especially the descriptions of PTSD) 'Necessary Things', both set during the Blight. Concise writing, a sympathetic and believable Cousland (named after Eddard Stark - what's not to love?) and one of my favouritest interpretations of romancing Morrigan like ever. Seriously.

** Recap - Sylvanna, Eadric, the Architect - chapter 31 **

[The Arling of Redcliffe]

Tomas: I've accepted this sidequest, but there's room for one more. Did you want-

Sylvanna: An excuse to take my mind off my family problems? Is the divine Andrastian?

[Later]

Tomas: Warden, that cave doesn't seem safe. At least let me take point?

Sylvanna: Oh Tomas, I can solo most encounters in my sleep. What's the worst that could happen?

Dane: Look, ser! Mysterious appendages and human remains!

Tomas: The roof is collapsing! Everyone out!

Dane: You're not thinking of going after her, are you?

Tomas: No, I'm thinking of how my jewels will be ripped off when I get blamed for this catastrophe.

Dane: *is inconveniently injured*

Tomas: *drags him to safety*

Codex: _Quest failed. Darkspawn - 1. Redcliffe Militia - 0._

[Meanwhile]

Broodmother: *fantasising* OM NOM NOM NOM.

Sylvanna: Hmm. Weird noises and putrid fleshy things underfoot. Where have I seen this before?

Broodmother: *begins tentacle vore sequence*

Eadric: *casts Cone of Cold*

Broodmother: Nerf mages! Nerf mages now!

Sylvanna: *wakes up* I think something's broken...

Architect: Boo.

Sylvanna: Eep!

* * *

**The Fade**

"You know the rules, elf."

Everyone in the Alienage knew the rules, even if they could not read the leaflets plastered on every wall, in every nook and cranny the Denerim guard could reach.

_Elves who have swords will die upon them._

"I swear, I don't know what you're talking about," Sylvanna's mother protested, her hands outstretched.

There were only eight guards. It was all too simple, Sylvanna thought, the magic warming her skin as it pulsed to the tips of her fingers. Too simple for words.

Her spell spread over the scene in a shimmering veil, encasing the guardsmen and her mother in a silent tableaux. Sylvanna walked up to her frozen subjects, and frowned. How small her mother seemed. Then again, Sylvanna was the Hero of Ferelden; perhaps that made all the difference.

She drew her dagger, circling around the guards. Pausing before each one in turn, she slit their throats, moving as though she had practised this a thousand times. Suspended by her magic, their blood remained trapped in their veins, leaving her robes meticulously clean.

She returned to her mother, releasing the spell. Eight bodies collapsed into mere lumps of armour and flesh. She glanced down, waiting for her reward.

"What have you done?" her mother gasped. Blood pooled around her in a widening circle, soaking into her skirts.

Sylvanna frowned. "I saved your life."

Her mother clambered to her feet, darting backwards when Sylvanna knelt to help her. "Stay away from me!"

That wasn't how the dream was supposed to go. A flush rose to Sylvanna's face as she struggled to exert control over the Fade. "But Mama, I love you-"

"Who's responsible for these murders?" a voice boomed out, echoed a moment later by the sound of rolling thunder. She glanced up to see clouds gathering overhead, and below them, a group of helmed templars fast approaching.

"Thank the Maker!" her mother exclaimed, darting behind the lead templar. "There she is. There's your abomination!"

"I'm not-" Sylvanna sifted through her memories. That had been Jowan's nightmare. "You never called me that!"

The templars drew their swords as one, stepping over the bodies of the dead guardsmen. Sylvanna raised her hands, and then the sky burst open with light as the Chant struck her like a falling star.

Even in the Fade, it hurt; she collapsed, her head ringing with a dull, insistent pain, her mana slipping through her fingers. She clawed at the dirt as though she could chase it, catch it like quicksilver before it disappeared.

A boot stepped near her hand. "Get up."

Sylvanna looked towards the voice and saw only a suit of armour. She rose to her feet, dusting soil from her palms. The templar lowered his helm, and she sighed in relief.

"Alistair, call them off-"

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the pain came, burning in her chest. She glanced down, seeing blood pouring from the point where his sword impaled her.

"Why?" she whispered, but even as she spoke, she had her answer. He withdrew, and she tumbled to the ground; just another body in the Alienage, her blood mingling with those of shems and thieves, beggars and merchants, to be washed from the streets by the next rains.

.

.

.

**The Deep Roads**

"Drink," her captor ordered, shoving a vial at her through the bars.

She blinked sleep from her eyes, waiting for her vision to clear. A dim phosphorescence emanated from the walls, bathing everything in a sickly yellow glow. The second one - the darkspawn - was absent, though her blood hummed with a quiet restlessness, hinting at others gathered nearby.

Sylvanna peered at the glass vial. The liquid inside looked almost violet, although that could have been a trick of the light. "What is it?"

"Magebane."

Sylvanna shuddered. Running out of mana in combat was one thing, but self-inducing that loss felt as unnatural as cutting off her own thumbs. Even suffering through a templar's smite would have been preferable.

"My arm didn't mend. If you could just release me for a second-"

"My apologies," he said with a sneer. "We can't all be star healers now, can we?"

He stared at her with eyes that burned, filmed with an unnatural white sheen. There were a few marks along the back of his hands and just behind his ears that seemed too dark to be bruises, but he still looked, on the whole, like a normal elf.

She had a name for him: Eadric. He had joined the Circle in her seventh year, fresh from some freehold in the south. When he came, his presence had changed everything.

There were some things she had never confided to Jowan. How she used to sit, for hours on end, with a knife on her knee, a mirror before her; tracing across her ears with a fingernail, rounding off the points into soft curves; picturing herself using the knife to sculpt her form into something reassuringly dull and perfectly normal.

It all seemed rather silly, now.

"I'm not going anywhere. The bone hasn't set properly. I just want to make sure-"

Eadric snarled, sounding more ghoul than elf. Then he began to cast. In her travels, Sylvanna had never met any shriek emissaries, but whatever transformation Eadric had begun, he could still wield magic.

The magic settled like ice into her blood, and she cried out as the bone moved of its own accord, shifting into place until it met its twin and fused across the break. Tears sprang to her eyes as her flesh knitted over, mottled bruises rising to the surface of her skin.

"There," Eadric said. "Now drink."

Sylvanna cautiously flexed her arm. The work was acceptable, she supposed, with a hint of professional irritation. The break had been clean; she tried to remember how it occurred, but the thought slipped away from her like a mirage.

"I can't cast with these," she said, holding up her wrists. "Surely that's precaution enough?"

It was a perfectly reasonable argument. Eadric seemed to disagree; he reached towards her, one arm wrapping around her throat and slamming her back against the bars. She clawed at him, struggling for breath; he had always been on the wiry side at the Tower, so where did all this strength come from?

As she gasped for air, he pressed the vial to her lips, levering open her jaw. Drops of liquid slid down her chin as she struggled, but the rest reached its target, thick and bitter on her tongue. Eadric clamped his hand over her mouth, nails digging into her cheek until she swallowed, gagging as it burnt her throat.

He released her and she collapsed. Her vision began to shift, a sudden rush of vertigo distorting her senses. Had there been something else within the potion? But then the nausea cleared, and she exhaled in relief, even as the loss of mana gnawed at her.

Eadric unlocked the door. "Get up."

She turned to look at him. His blood sang to her; _brother_, it whispered, though occasionally a discordant note would mar the tune. "You're a warden, aren't you? Why are you helping him?"

It was impossible to read his expression in the dark. Only his eyes gleamed, reflective like a cat's. "Get up," he repeated. When she failed to move, he grabbed the chains to her manacles, dragging her to her feet. Eadric began to cast, rhythmic words as regular as a heartbeat, a pattern she recognised.

"No. No!"

_Morrigan began to cast, her own life-force draining to feed the spell. The ogre roared as the magic took hold, a bloody mist coalescing around its form. It dropped Alistair from its grasp, turning with slow, lumbering steps, and threw itself off the cliffside. Morrigan laughed all the way down, and Sylvanna laughed with her: from relief, of course._

_"That's why the Chantry prohibits blood magic," Alistair muttered, but by that point, neither mage was listening._

Eadric stopped. Blood dripped from the swell of his thumb; so much menace in such a tiny drop.

"I'll behave," Sylvanna whispered.

He bared his teeth in what could have been a smile. "Walk," he ordered, and she stepped before him, stumbling along in the dark.

.

.

.

Eadric led her through a maze of passages, dotted here and there with phosphorescent fungi. His eyesight was uncanny - she could barely see her own feet, and yet his step remained unerringly sure as he pushed her along. The caverns all looked much alike, filled with dusty remnants of dwarven architecture: broken columns and loose pavers; sign posts with the words long worn down by dripping water or covered in black growths. It smelled different to the roads leading to Orzammar; occasionally a breeze would move across her face, tempting her with the promise of a route stretching up all the way to the surface.

"Stop," Eadric said, and she obeyed. Her feet ached inside her sodden boots.

He rapped on a door behind her, and another voice answered. "Come in."

Light spilled out as Eadric opened the door, and she blinked, feet searching for purchase as he gave her another shove between her shoulder blades. She somehow managed not to fall over, shaking the hair from her face as she straightened.

"Thank you, Eadric. You may go."

The door made a loud thud as it slammed shut, and dust drifted down from the ceiling, making her sneeze.

"I apologise for Eadric. He can be difficult."

She had recognised that voice as soon as it had answered through the door. Its diction was marred by an unusual mouth, the lips asymmetrical, a web of flesh leading down from its jaw to one side of its face. A mere suggestion of eyes flickered from behind a golden demi-mask, clawed hands folded over a desk. She had interrupted its work: a quill was laid down beside a half-written page.

"I dreamt of you." She took a step forward, the manacles clanking as she moved. "Months ago. After-" she paused, the thought slipping from her mind. The dream had come after something terrible had happened. She had vague memories of her daughter's face, tinged red with anger. Or had that also been a dream?

"Ah. A partial success, then." The darkspawn picked up its quill, making a note. "I attempted venturing into the Fade, but my methods have not always proved effective."

It had surrounded itself with books, many half-decayed, their spines broken. Most were covered in dwarven runes, but she thought she could make out a word or two on some volumes. "You asked for my aid. What did you mean by that?"

It rose to its full height, armour glittering bluish in the light of an orb on the desk. Exaggerated spaulders covered its shoulders, made of thin, curved pieces of riveted leather, a skeletal pattern raised on its breastplate, reminiscent of ribs. "I will answer all of your questions. Please, sit."

She searched for a free surface; nearly everything was covered with books or parchment. Eventually she moved a roll of maps, placing it upon the floor and reclaiming a small stool.

The darkspawn handed her a warm plate, helping her to balance it on her lap, and placed a chipped mug filled with liquid by her feet. The plate held a pile of glistening lumps, the smell vaguely familiar. "What's that?" she asked.

"Roasted _tezpadam_." The darkspawn sounded almost melancholy. "They were Utha's favourite."

Sylvanna poked the dish. Clear liquid oozed from one of the lumps, and her stomach growled, reminding her that it was empty save for the poison Eadric had forced down her throat. Taking a piece between her index and middle finger, she popped it into her mouth and slowly chewed, forcing herself to swallow despite the ache in her throat. It was quite acceptable, if one ignored the peculiar smell and the sensation of biting into rubber.

"I requested your aid, Warden, because I believe a common foe threatens all our races," the darkspawn said as she ate. She ought to be more afraid, she thought between bites. When she first woke, she had been terrified. Had Eadric placed something in her magebane after all?

"I would have been more accommodating if you'd arranged a meeting on the surface. No one appreciates being held captive."

"I am sorry if you are experiencing any discomfort. But I doubt we would have had this opportunity to converse under different circumstances. Our kind has been at war for so long; such measures are required to prevent further bloodshed."

"And these?" Sylvanna held out the manacles before her.

"It would be unwise not to take precautions." It bent down, moving aside a corner of its robe. It revealed a leg with the flesh half-eaten away, glistening white bone visible beneath. "That was a parting gift from the last grey warden I had the pleasure to meet. Unfortunately, the regenerative process seems to be slowed by the poisons she used."

It draped its robes over the wound once more, and Sylvanna turned away, her stomach clenching in knots. "Why are you taking wardens?"

The darkspawn tilted its head to the side, as if judging her. "I believe you know. Tell me, why does the surface need grey wardens?"

Sylvanna frowned. "To end the Blights, of course. But there's no Blight-"

"No? But there is an archdemon."

"There's not!" Sylvanna snapped, the words escaping her lips before she consciously thought of them. "She's not an archdemon! She's a little girl!"

The Architect sighed, its long claws tracing a sigil in the air. "I see we have much work ahead of us," it said, and Sylvanna felt the vertigo rise within her until the floor swayed and darkness swallowed her whole.

.

.

.

_The subject complains of disturbing visions. Urthemiel may be searching for her through the Fade. Would She try to retrieve the warden, if She could? I do not know. Eadric has agreed to increase the dosage of madcap, to disrupt the Fade connection._

_The wards placed upon the subject are intriguing, even beautiful. Unfortunate that they must be destroyed, since I would dearly love to study them in greater detail. Their complexities suggest that the Old God must retain some memory of existence before Her corruption. However, I doubt their efficacy would have proven so durable had the subject not complied to some degree._ __  
_  
_ _Free will appears to be the cipher. It may be unnecessary, given the appropriate stimuli, but then the risk of failure increases. Without the other grey warden, opportunities remain limited._

_The Seeker reports that the male wardens have moved further north, encasing themselves within a fortress. A minor setback. Their duty lies in destroying the Old God, but their antipathy makes further contact difficult._ __  
__  
_Valena remains in poor spirits. Eadric refuses to go near her. She ate two hurlocks in the last few hours alone. Soon none will want to venture close, but it is necessary. Thus the cycle continues._ __  
__  
_Giving her the other wardens' corpses may have been a mistake. She appears to have acquired a taste for it. Curious. I expected the taint to have a dampening effect upon her desires._ __  
_  
_ _Her response to the growth serum has been overwhelmingly positive. With further experimentation, it may be possible to reduce the duration of the breeding cycle by another fifty per cent. If her offspring are also born Enlightened, this could trigger a monumental shift in the evolution of our race._

_It is too early to be sure. The psychosis remains an unfortunate side effect. Perhaps it will relent once her first litter arrives._ __  
__  
_Eadric concerns me. He appears to bear some hostility towards the subject, possibly the result of a prior encounter. I caught him observing her as she slept. I hope he does not decide to do anything rash. The loss of such a useful companion would greatly inconvenience my experiments._ __  


.

.

.

Consciousness drifted back to her in stages. First, the light, muted over her lids, then glaring when she opened her eyes. She screwed them shut. Then the smell, like the inside of a cave where something had died: stagnant water, damp stone, rotting flesh and decay. Then sound.

It talked to her, soft vowels and rolling consonants. The words made no sense - was that because she had forgotten how to speak, or was it using another language? The cadence was unfamiliar: not dwarven, or elvish, or even Arcanum.

Something touched her hair, and she leant towards it. The voice spoke again, and this time she understood.

"Sleep."

She embraced the feeling of warmth, settling into it like an old friend. It make everything clearer, soothing the half-imagined fears from her memory. Perhaps, she thought drowsily, when next she woke, she would ask the voice to let her sleep again.

Forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, Avarenda, interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, often indecisive, Snafu1000, Spikesagitta, Victorita9, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision.


	34. Inconvenient Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, juri and sqbr for the plot advice, and Twinkle for the extensive LP, making life easier every time I can't be bothered grinding through my save files.
> 
> Warning: References to rape. Minor spoilers for the Warden's Keep DLC.

** Recap - Alistair, Anders, Guillaume - chapter 30 **

[Northern Ferelden]

Alistair: Woah, creepy dreams. I'll never look at Bella the same way again.

Anders: Darkspawn!

Guillaume: How did this happen? Didn't I have level four in Survival?

Alistair: Just roll initiative and get over yourself.

Anders: Uh, guys? Your healer has aggro! A little help here?

Fireball: *incinerates stuff*

Alistair: Plate metal... really sucks...

Anders: *dies*

Ser Pounce-a-lot: Mraw?

Anders: I'm so glad I went for the heal-specced companion animal.

Alistair: Is it just me, or is there something wrong with your cat?

Guillaume: Kill the unholy abomination!

Anders: I'm calling the RSPCA on you!

Alistair: What's with the sneak attacks? And why does that emissary look familiar?

Anders: Poor old Velanna. Just another woman in an ice chest.

Guillaume: Can we stop with the nerd references?

Alistair: This darkspawn thing is kind of weird, but it has nothing to do with me.

Anders: Nothing to do with the father of the Old God?

Alistair: Don't call me that. Next they'll be wanting alimony.

Anders: That's the least of your worries, seeing as Connor's notes were burnt.

Guillaume: Can't trust a mage with anything.

Anders: If you were covering me like you were supposed to-

Alistair: Relax, everyone. I know a guy.

Anders: This isn't going to end well...

* * *

**Soldier's Peak**

"'_Day ninety-seven. Energy and blood. Repeated applications have duplicated the results. I conjecture that success can be induced alchemically.'_ Avernus was testing on his fellow wardens," Alistair said, glancing up from the note he was reading.

"So it would seem." Sylvanna picked up a dusty bottle, uncorking it and sniffing its contents. Her face twisted into a scowl.

"You're not actually going to drink that, are you?" Alistair asked. "Look, I'll read on: _'But there are no more subjects left. If only I had one more, or a dozen. The things I could do.' _His research was killing them!"

"This Avernus sounds like a true scholar," Morrigan said. "His concoction may unlock any number of beneficial powers; abilities that could help us against the Blight."

"Or it could kill you! Let's not forget the killing part, shall we?" Alistair thought he could make some sort of quip about wardens putting strange fluids into their mouths, but it seemed inadvisable with Morrigan standing right there, primed to wither him with a glance.

Sylvanna squinted down the neck of the bottle. "It's probably not that bad. How effective could any poison be after ageing for centuries?"

Alistair searched for support from the only other member of the party. "You're with me on this one, aren't you, boy?"

Thetus whuffed at him, stubby tail wagging.

"See? He agrees with me!"

"I'll just taste it," Sylvanna promised. She raised the bottle, tilting it towards her lips. Alistair's mouth went dry just watching her, hands tensing as he waited for her to spontaneously implode, or turn into an abomination-ghoul-thing, or something...

Just before the first drops could land upon her tongue, a dark blur shifted before her. The bottle shattered on the floor, liquid soaking uselessly into the dirt, her dog standing defiantly beside the broken glass.

"Thetus!" Sylvanna exclaimed. "Bad dog!"

Thetus whined, and Alistair beckoned him over, bending down to face him. "Good boy," he whispered, slipping him a snack from his backpack. He studiously ignored the slobbery mess all over his hand and patted the dog on the head, wiping his palm off against Thetus' fur in the process.

The two mages had already moved on, walking through the next door. Alistair toed the glass fragments, half-expecting his boot to dissolve as it touched the spilled liquid. What kind of research was so valuable that it justified taking the lives of the people it was supposed to be helping?

"Alistair. Alistair!"

"I'm coming!" he called out. Wait, that wasn't a woman's voice. Where was he?

.

.

.

"I was just saying, why didn't Osric make better use of this fortress? It's magnificent!" Anders said, spreading his arms wide. He frowned at Alistair. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Of course!" Alistair walked towards the rooms the Drydens had allocated to them, trying not to trip over Anders' cat as it wove between their legs. "Let's just meet Avernus and get this over and done with, shall we?"

"You're mighty jumpy today." Anders scooped up his cat, stopping at the room next to Alistair's. "Are you certain everything's all right?"

"We're here safely, aren't we?" Alistair put on his best grin, imagining the light glinting off his teeth.

Anders merely shrugged. "As you say," he remarked, before disappearing into his room, the cat following at his heels.

Alistair sighed.

The door closed behind him with a nice, solid sound. The Drydens had given him a huge room - it must have been Sophia's, back in the day. He walked to the window, dumping his pack on the bed. Below, trade bustled in the courtyard, the ringing of metalwork sounding clearly through the cold autumn air. It comforted him, that noise. It harked back to the smithy at Redcliffe, where he had often snuck in during the colder months, seeking the heat of the forge.

Anders was right. The grey wardens should have made better use of the keep, and as king, Alistair should have smoothed the process along. It remained little more than a trading post - many of the Drydens were still unaware of Avernus' true purpose, as far as he could tell. The mage appeared to keep to himself. Apparently he grew his own food (though Alistair would be the last person to eat anything from his gardens), and so it not unusual for months or even years to go by before anyone saw a glimpse of the reclusive mage.

A knock came at the door. Alistair finished splashing his face with water, wiping his skin dry with a cloth. "Come in."

Guillaume slipped inside the room, looking remarkably uncomfortable out of his armour. Alistair could sympathise; after the Blight, it had taken him months to discard habits forged out of necessity on the road. "Is something wrong?"

"This Avernus. What reason has he to help us?" Guillaume asked.

Alistair frowned. "I thought we'd discussed this? He owes us his life. And he seems loyal enough to the Order, as strange as that sounds."

"He owes the other grey warden, not just you. We know wardens are susceptible to the Old God's call. How are we to know Avernus is not one of them?"

Alistair resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. He thought he had put all the conspiracy theories behind him upon leaving Denerim. "Then we kill him, find another blood mage, and move on."

Guillaume paced to the other side of the room. "You make it sound so easy," he muttered. "They were your friends, were they not?" he asked, rounding upon Alistair. "The child will be difficult to defeat - they say to look upon her is to desire to protect her."

"'Friends' is a bit of an overstatement. Anyway, isn't that why we're here? To develop a way of avoiding the compulsion surrounding the Old God?"

Guillaume inclined his head. The man turned to leave, and Alistair directed his attention back to his luggage.

"Are you... familiar with Bann Ceorlic?" Guillaume asked, just as he reached the door.

At this rate, they would be done with the keep long before Alistair ever finished unpacking. "He rules one of the holdings in the Southern Bannorn. Why do you ask?"

Guillaume shifted uncomfortably, silent for once. Ceorlic had sided with Loghain just before the end of the Blight. Anora had remained friendly with him, for that reason alone, Alistair suspected: Ceorlic had always seemed a bit on the snivelling side. He was rumoured to have an Orlesian mistress. Was that why Guillaume was so interested in him?

"I... no reason. My apologies for bothering you, Your Majesty."

"Please, let's not stand on formalities," Alistair said, to Guillaume's retreating back. The door closed. Odd. Perhaps they were connected, in some way. He should have been better versed in court intrigues, but it was one of those things he had always left to Anora - or Elissa.

Alistair groaned, sinking into a chair. He ought to visit the main trading hall in the keep, catch up with the latest reports from Denerim. Then again, there was a reason why he had avoided such gossip in the first place: it was almost impossible that any news would be good news. The king absconding? The divine excommunicating the entirety of Ferelden? It was sure to be something bad; he could feel it in his bones.

Maker, he needed a drink.

.

.

.

Guillaume stalked his prey with intense concentration, his mind focused, his will sharp. His footsteps fell soundlessly upon the cold stone, without even a breeze to mark his passage.

His quarry paused, head bent. Soft noises marked its enjoyment of the trap Guillaume had laid for it. Any moment now...

Thwack. Guillaume closed a sack around his prey, holding the struggling bundle at arm's length as claws pierced the coarse fabric. Loud, strangled yowls emerged, only dying down when the herbs he had crushed at the bottom of the bag began to take effect.

After his burden became limp, Guillaume picked up the saucer of meat, stashing it in a separate bag, and fled the scene.

The keep was a warren of chambers, many appearing to be seldom used, judging by the coatings of dust. He found one of the smaller storerooms, stocking it with food and fresh water; he was not a monster, after all. He dumped the sack onto the floor and poked it with the toe of his boot, but it failed to move. Odd that the demon-cat seemed to have no other special abilities besides the powers it had demonstrated on its master. Still, no point in taking chances; not when there was an ancient, and by all accounts, extremely unethical blood mage in residence. He would release the cat once they were ready to leave the keep. Anders would probably thank him for keeping him out of Avernus' grasp; who knew what sort of experiments a blood mage might think to conduct on such an unusual animal?

Guillaume barred the door from the outside, then placed his ear against it. There came a quiet mewling, muffled enough to go unnoticed by the casual observer.

Congratulating himself on a job well done, Guillaume slunk away to dispose of the rest of the evidence.

.

.

.

**The Fade**

Alistair groaned, seeing the brown-grey landscape surrounding him. He had only been turning out the sheets for mites; he hadn't intended to go to sleep, not with so much work to be done.

He pinched himself. "Wake up," he hissed. "Wake up!"

"Oh. 'Tis you after all. I had hoped to be mistaken."

Alistair pivoted, fumbling for the hilt of his sword. There she was - unless she was another figment of his imagination, or a demon in disguise. Either seemed possible, save for the fact that she had more wrinkles around her face than he remembered. It was unlikely that a demon would trouble itself with such details, wasn't it?

Maker, he had forgotten how beautiful she was. Cold and beautiful, like a statue. He had trusted her. It was impossible not to trust someone when your life depended on their competence, day to day, week to week. He had trusted her, and she had betrayed him without a shred of remorse. Then again, she wasn't the last. Sylvanna, Eamon... they had all turned on him, one by one. In the end, Morrigan had been right: loyalty, friendship, love were meaningless concepts. The only person he could truly trust was himself.

"Do stop gaping like some Antivan fishwife. 'Tis most unseemly," Morrigan huffed, before turning away.

He had dreamt of those lips, the entire route out of the Korcari Wilds. At some point, he had imagined kissing them - how ludicrous the notion seemed, now - perverse, even. "What are you doing here?" he asked, wishing he had not disarmed before falling asleep. It wasn't fair; even without their staves, mages were still a force to be reckoned with. He could smite her bare-handed, he supposed, but deaths in the Fade did not translate to reality, and so all he would probably achieve would be to give her a headache. Still, one took what one could.

She snorted. "'Twould be pointless to explain the situation to you, even if you were to believe me. Listen to me well, Alistair - 'twould be best if you remained perfectly ignorant of the danger that threatens you and your kind."

She was doing something to the fabric of the Fade around them, he could feel it. "What do you mean, 'my kind'? The other wardens?" He walked up to her, watching her run her hands over thin air, as though she was searching for something.

"You are very far from home. Perhaps that will prove to be your final mistake," she said, without taking her eyes from whatever she was looking at.

Alistair stepped in front of her. "Stop talking in riddles. You sound - you sound like your mother."

One perfect eyebrow twitched, and those full, soft lips bared in a cruel grin. "I shall assume you intended that as a compliment. You have my thanks."

She began to turn away, and he seized her, one hand under her chin forcing her to look at him. "Why are you here, Morrigan? What game are you playing now?"

She smirked again, but this time he could see the anger lurking behind her sneer. "Unhand me, before you are forced to."

He dropped her, wiping his hands on his breeches as though he had touched something foul. "Why did you want to find me? It's a bit late for talking, don't you think?"

She sighed theatrically, rolling her eyes. "'Twas not I who brought us together. 'Twas our daughter, in her misguided efforts to search for us. I do not intend to allow her to find me, and if you are wise, you will take similar precautions."

"Our-" Alistair gritted his teeth, swallowing down the bitter taste in his mouth. "Why aren't you with her? Trouble in paradise?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Nothing that would hold any interest for one such as you. Now silence, before your insufferable bleating attracts unwanted attention."

She returned to whatever she was doing, and Alistair glanced around them. He could feel... something. Some sort of presence, like the echo of a melody. He tried to isolate the sound, and it grew louder; he thought about the heaviness of steel in his hands, the bite of ice against skin, and the noise receded.

"You tried to warn me before," he said. "What did you mean?"

Morrigan sighed. Her hands ceased moving, and a portal's glowing outline appeared before her, the edges pulsating with light. "I suppose you would have discovered the truth for yourself, soon enough." She bit her lip, and he saw something flash across her face - he might have called it regret, in any other person. "She has your daughter. Your other daughter."

"She-" Alistair spluttered, heat rising to his face. "You're joking. Tell me you're joking."

She eyed with him with what could have been pity. "'Twould seem your courtiers are not as loyal as you might have thought. Take my advice, Alistair: do not seek her out. 'Twill all end with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, as the bards would say."

The portal shimmered, and she stepped towards it. Alistair lunged for her. "Wait!" he shouted, his fingers grasping at the edge of her robes. "Wait - Morrigan! You bitch!"

The portal closed after her, and waved his hands frantically through the thin air that remained. Curses ran through his mind, growing more offensive and incoherent with every second.

_Maker, she's taken her. That little witch has my daughter._

.

.

.

**Soldier's Peak**

"Sire? Oh, you brought the cold water. Did you want to do the honours, or should I-"

"I'm awake," Alistair spluttered, holding his arms over his face. "I'm awake! Get it thing away from me!"

Anders retreated, looking disappointed. Beside him, Guillaume replaced the threatening jug on the nightstand, glancing out of the window towards the darkening sky.

"Avernus has agreed to see us," Guillaume said. "He finished studying Connor's work. What was left of it," he added, with a glare towards Anders.

"Good." Alistair swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulling on his boots. His dream - had it only been a dream? Or had he truly spoken to Morrigan? (Why did he have to speak with Morrigan? He should have attacked her as soon as she appeared. Maybe it had been a demon. Or maybe she had been lying to him, to lure him into a trap. Funny, that. He had never thought of her as much of a thespian; it had been quite a performance, that thin veneer of regret - just enough for him to almost believe it could be genuine.)

"I need to see Levi," Alistair said. As a trader, Levi Dryden ought to keep up with the latest gossip. Then again, if they had confirmation of what Morrigan had told him, wouldn't someone have brought this to his attention? Maybe she had been lying after all. It wouldn't have been the first time.

"Avernus requested your presence now. Apparently there is a slight problem with our request," Guillaume said.

Alistair bit down the snarl threatening to bubble up from his throat. "Fine. But he'd better make it quick."

The mage was waiting for them at the foot of the tower he had claimed as his own. The warden looked even more ancient than he had eleven years ago, resembling a living corpse. His skin seemed so dessicated and fragile that Alistair wondered whether he might blow away in a stiff breeze.

"Your Majesty. Wardens." Avernus inclined his head towards them, his hands tucked inside the sleeves of his robe.

Sylvanna should have killed him long before now. But if she had, who would they have turned to? "Do you have something for us? Something to aid us against the Old God?" Alistair asked.

Avernus spread his hands, palms held up. "Perhaps. Perhaps not." He turned to Anders. "Did you read these notes before coming to me?"

"Of course!" Anders said. "They describe how to make wardens invisible to the Old God, and how to suppress the regenerative magic surrounding her."

"Curious, is it not, that the darkspawn appear to have reached the same conclusion. Judging from your experiences, they seem to be working on how to mask the taint within them. To what end, I wonder? One imagines that they would rejoice at the Old God's return," Avernus said, his gimlet eyes peering at each of them.

"Can you help us or not?" Alistair asked, his teeth grinding together. Every second here was another wasted when he could have been doing something useful - like disproving Morrigan's claims.

Avernus sighed, the sound like air being pressed between two sheets of parchment. "I can create the items listed here." He flourished Connor's notes, black flakes of soot drifting from the burnt corners. "Along with my own improvements, of course. But the data given to me is incomplete."

Guillaume glared at Anders again, and the mage adopted his most innocent expression.

"What I need is time. Time to account for all the permutations, since I have no way of knowing which is correct, and no way of testing for it, either. Unless you have the means to summon the Old God for some experiments..."

"We don't have time," Alistair said, silencing Anders with a wave when he seemed prepared to speak. "Find another way."

"I have." Avernus' mouth moved, and it took Alistair a moment to realise that the old man was actually smiling. "It requires assistance from another grey warden. One of you will suffice, I suppose, unless you have someone else in mind."

"Gwaren and Amaranthine may already have been corrupted by the Old God's influence, and Orzammar is too far from here," Guillaume said.

"Ah." Avernus tucked the notes into his robes. "I need blood. Grey warden blood."

Anders rolled his eyes. "Why am I not surprised?"

"How much blood?" Alistair asked.

Avernus smirked, a light dancing over his cavernous face. "I will not lie to you.

"This procedure requires one of your lives."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to my reviewers: Asher77, interesting2125, mutive, often indecisive, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision. And thanks to everyone who pulled themselves away from DA2 long enough to read this :-p (Australian release in two days!)


	35. Her Mother's Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - Morrigan - chapter 32 **

[South Reach]

Ishantha: My package arrived! See?

Baby!Theirin: *makes puppy eyes*

Morrigan: Wonderful. Not only did you commit treason, but you brought me yet another insipid and filthy child to mother. Truly, is there no limit to your talents?

Ishantha: Nope.

Morrigan: And the purpose of this absurd plot is...?

Ishantha: To influence the succession, of course! It may take a few decades, but what's that to an Old God?

Morrigan: How unfortunate that your other mother could not be present to chastise you.

Messenger: Funny you should mention that, since the grey warden was lost during a cave-in.

Morrigan: Grey wardens and caves. When will they ever learn?

Ishantha: Don't go chasing after someone who's probably already dead or worse! Think instead about how lovely it would be to add to our family!

Morrigan: Your clumsy effort at controlling me are for naught. Desist and never attempt that again, or Mother will be very angry.

Ishantha: I thought you were already angry-

Morrigan: Angrier.

Ishantha: *sulks*

Morrigan: *leaves*

* * *

**Southern Ferelden**

The day after her departure from South Reach, Morrigan landed on the ground and transformed, stretching her naked limbs. She ventured into a nearby stream, the water setting her skin to goose flesh before she heated it with a word. There was no soap to be had, but she used the sand from the bed to scrub herself down, rubbing until her palms reddened.

It was unwise to linger in this form too long, so close to her daughter. She could still remember the dream-child at the back of her mind, that illusion of warmth and safety - of belonging. It was irrational, that feeling; worse than the Sloth demon's mockery of Flemeth. She had presumed her daughter more ingenious than that. More imaginative than to tempt her with pithy fantasies of yet another pair of drooling babes.

Even so, the thought lingered as she ran fingertips through her wet hair, shivering at the memory. Her hand drifted to her belly, nails digging into her flesh and leaving marks against her flat stomach. Damn Ishantha and her meddling. Morrigan was no stranger to manipulation, but this travesty, this blatant disregard for her consciousness went beyond the pale.

She was afraid. The admission stung, but she could not deny it. To be frightened of her own child - her own blood - it seemed absurd.

It was the yearning, more than anything. The acceptance of the illusion, the thought that somehow she desired it - and that must have been a lie, for surely she did not long for such a paltry fantasy.

If he were sensible, Alistair would avoid Ishantha as best he could. Sadly, she held few hopes for such an outcome. Her warning might only have inflamed the man's tendency towards the contrary. Still, it was his skin and not her own that he risked; she had done all she could in cautioning him.

She dried herself with another spell and was soon airborne once more. Hawks had a better time of it, she mused.

Had Ishantha been a hatchling, she would have pushed her from the nest a long time ago.

.

.

.

There was no outstretched arm or solicitous voice to greet her when she returned to Redcliffe. She clothed herself, winding her hair into a tight bun and securing it with pins. One of the jewelled ornaments fell from her hand, and she cursed her clumsiness, reaching for it on the dresser.

She stopped.

There, buried under the chains and pearls was a mirror; Morrigan lifted it by the handle, gazing at her reflection. She looked a right state; eyes reddened, skin sallow. She replaced it on the dresser, face down, fingertips tracing over the golden sparrows on its back.

She had thought to trade it for supplies before leaving the Frostback Mountains, ten years ago; it only remained in her possession due to foolish sentimentality. She had given Sylvanna a gift, in turn, but no evidence of that remained. Sylvanna, as it transpired, was always prone to losing things.

.

.

.

"You ought to give her a present. Some small token of your affection. It would be a sweet thing to do, no?"

Morrigan kept her eyes upon the tome she was studying, exhaling a most disgruntled sigh. With luck, the bard would note her displeasure and leave her in peace.

She did not.

Leliana sank down next to the fire, her perfumed hair mere inches from Morrigan's offended nose. "After all, she constantly showers you with presents. If you are so concerned with being equals, surely you should do the same?"

The covers of the tome slammed shut between Morrigan's hands, its pages exhaling a puff of musty air. "Are you attempting to bestow advice about my relationship with the grey warden?"

"Of course!"

Morrigan snorted, her eyes narrowed. "Am I to be impressed at your skills in seduction? To show obeisance to your prowess with the fairer sex? Are you to be my mentor in navigating those torrid waters?"

The bard laughed in that irritating, facetiously girlish way of hers. "My dear Morrigan, not at all. It would take years for me to teach you all you need to know. Though to begin with, you could be a little nicer."

Morrigan returned the laugh measure for measure, imitating Leliana's overwrought giggle. "And this from a woman whose former lover hunts us even as we speak? If I wanted the warden to betray me for political gain, then subject me to torture and continued attempts on my life, yours would be the first door to which I would turn. Until then, I pray you keep your counsel to yourself."

The impact of her words was barely noticeable. Leliana's lips twitched slightly, but in one as well-schooled as she, such a reaction was priceless.

"I pity you, Morrigan. You will never be betrayed by the one you love... since you so clearly lack the heart to love at all."

Morrigan told herself she felt only relief as the bard stalked away, leaving her in peace at last. Her point about the warden was not without some merit, she admitted grudgingly. She looked down at her forefinger, and the plain wooden band that encircled it. The ring felt cool to her touch; it would not be a strenuous thing to alter the magic for it, to give it a new purpose.

She raised her eyes. The warden was conversing with that fool of a templar; both were doubled over in unseemly mirth, the sound audible even from where Morrigan was seated. Truly, they were both akin to children in many respects; nothing at all like the grey wardens of Flemeth's stories. And yet-

And yet. Morrigan sighed, slipping the ring from her finger. They were the last two grey wardens in Ferelden; it was only sensible that she should keep her eye on them, was it not?

_More sensible_, a voice told her, _to leave such a gift with the male - after all, the other cannot provide what you require._

"Be silent," Morrigan said, and then tightened her lips, feeling foolish. One followed where the other led, so it was only practical to give the ring to the latter.

She would present the gift when they were next alone. Sylvanna would see the use of it, surely, accepting it as a tool that could benefit the two of them in equal measure.

Nothing more.

.

.

.

The guard shifted before her, biting his lip. "The dwarf's not due at Redcliffe for another week, Milady. In any case, a string of explosives could bring the whole thing down-"

"If I wished to hear your opinion, I would have asked for it." Under Morrigan's withering stare, the guard subsided into silence. She had forgotten his name already, only knowing that he was the one careless enough to let Sylvanna slip from his sight. Still, she could not truly fault him, and that made the matter all the more infuriating. If this last measure failed, she would linger whilst prolonging his death; in the meantime, the man had his uses.

The guard cleared his throat, and continued. "We found another passage, where you told us it'd be, but the walls are unstable. A crew tried to shore it up, but-"

"But what?"

"I - uh - another three men were lost when it collapsed-"

Morrigan's hands clenched into fists. "The number of deaths occurring under your command does not concern me. You offer me assurances that you are trying; try harder. Between the choice of dying underground or dying at my hands, I promise you that you would far prefer the former."

"I... yes, Milady."

He shuffled away, leaving Morrigan alone with her thoughts. She exhaled, her breath condensing on the air. Around her, men scuttled to and fro, carting away huge piles of dirt. The industry was a sham, calculated to appease her thirst for blood, giving the appearance of enthusiastic labour with nothing to show for it.

If Sylvanna was dead, she would know. She would know, somehow, ring be damned; she would feel it in her bones.

She could split a man's skull like a ripe melon with the power of her mind; she could summon ice amidst the height of summer; she could force generals and aristocrats to dance for her, like puppets. But she could not shift tonnes of bare, unassuming rock, that lacked even the most basic drive of self-preservation or will.

It was all so humiliating.

Wynne had known how to move stone, how to stir the very bones of the world. How unfortunate that Morrigan had never taken the time to learn from her.

Perhaps she should have ordered Ishantha to return to Redcliffe; the girl's perception of grey wardens might have aided the excavation. Surely if Sylvanna were dead, she would have thrown that in Morrigan's face, and not - not the other thing. At the time, however, Morrigan could not have stomached either sight or sound of her. The nerve! The absolute gall, for her to presume she could control Morrigan - her own mother, no less!

Morrigan had to prepare herself, to strengthen her defences before the next time. And there would be a next time, she was certain of it - Ishantha would not relent so easily, not when she had a goal in mind.

She studied Flemeth's grimoires, searching for a way to deflect her daughter's meddling, but her head swam each time she turned a page, the text crawling like insects before her eyes. _Concentrate_, she told herself, and tried, but it was so very hard, with the emptiness of the stone walls around her, the lack of idle chatter to disrupt her attention.

Once, she tried slumbering in their bed, but the smell of Sylvanna's hair still lingered on the pillow, driving her to distraction until she tossed and turned through the night, sleeping not a wink.

This had to end.

.

.

.

"I don't get it," Alistair said, standing in the light from her fire. Morrigan squinted, a cloth pressed over her mouth and nose as she measured out the lyrium dust. Too much and the saturation point would be exceeded. Why was the fool disturbing her when she had work to do?

"What does she see in you?" Alistair continued, heedless of her ire. "You're cold, you're mean, and you don't even seem to actually like her all that much. Why are you even with her?"

Morrigan sealed the lyrium, leaving herself free to breathe normally once more. From the corner of her eye, she saw him playing with something; she snatched a beaker from his idle hands before he contaminated her tools. "'Tis none of your concern, Alistair. Pray begone before you inevitably ruin something with your clumsiness."

The wretched templar did not depart, instead leaning even closer. "You're going to eat her alive, aren't you? Spin some kind of spidery web and suck all the juices from her?"

Morrigan raised her brows. "My, my. Is that a euphemism?"

He blushed, the colouration visible even in the dim light. "You know what I mean," he muttered. "If you hurt her, I will seriously come down on you like a - like a charging bronto."

"Such touching bravado," Morrigan drawled. "One might think you were jealous. Did I take your favourite grey warden away from you?"

"What?" His cheeks became even redder, if such a thing were possible. "I'm not jealous. I'm horrified!"

Morrigan sighed. Amusing as it was to watch him struggle between brotherly affection and repressed lust, she had other, more profitable tasks to attend to. "Is there a purpose to all this posturing, Alistair? What must I say to make you leave me in peace?"

He stepped closer. At this distance, she could see the scars magic could not entirely heal, the red marks where his helmet had pressed against his forehead. A flicker of satisfaction ran through her as she imagined the child they would create together, its pleasing features, its boundless potential.

"I'm watching you," he said, his voice lowered. "Always watching."

Morrigan chortled. "And I, in turn, will observe you making a fool of yourself over a woman who cares nothing for your possessive attempts to smother her. By all means, Alistair, watch. I assure you, the resulting show will be worth far more than the price of admission."

The templar made a disgruntled noise, his ears burning, and left her side.

At last.

The woman in question was enacting some kind of pointless social ritual with Leliana. The two held hands, the bard evidently trying to direct Sylvanna's steps and failing, the warden almost falling over her feet. They both paused, and giggled; Morrigan felt a stab of irritation as she watched them.

Of all the warden's companions, Morrigan remained the most logical choice to pursue; Wynne, perhaps, could teach Sylvanna something of value, but she was a sanctimonious old hag, and perfectly incompatible. The assassin most likely carried diseases, the templar was as inept as he was odorous, and the dwarf and the qunari were both out of the question. She admitted that the bard was not without her charms, if one preferred one's women to be as skinny and unappealing as little boys, but her delusional reliance upon the Maker and her insincere flirtations counted against her favour.

There was certainly no question as to what the warden saw in Morrigan: her beauty, her talent, her ruthlessness; the converse was quite untrue, however. What did she see in the warden? Her magic was adequate, but hardly anything more; Wynne remained the better healer, though she would never voice such a thought out loud. Sylvanna giggled too much and had an abysmally poor sense of self-preservation; one did not become a grey warden, it seemed, by being prudent. Still, their dalliance was... pleasurable enough, for now, and that was reason enough to indulge, was it not?

Satisfied with her logic, Morrigan finished corking the vials she had prepared, packing them tightly into a small pouch. She deserved a reward after all that effort; she watched Sylvanna leaving the group to head towards her, and smirked.

The assassin was right, in one respect. Pleasure ought to be taken where one found it, and if its satisfaction resulted in a boon she could call upon later, so much the better. The warden would accept Morrigan's offer; she was not foolish enough to say no, and encouraging the... friendship between them would only make the process easier.

It was the perfect plan, and Morrigan congratulated herself on its progress as she rose, accepting Sylvanna's hand with a wolfish grin. It was the perfect plan, and she, Morrigan, was the perfect companion.

.

.

.

She watched the dig site from above, pinwheeling through the air as she met a particularly warm current. The work was progressing too slowly. Days had passed, without success; she knew all too well what evils lurked beneath the ground. If Sylvanna was still alive-

No. She quashed that thought as soon as it arose; Sylvanna would never allow herself to be taken for that purpose. She had said as much to Morrigan after they discovered the source of the darkspawn's fecundity. Sylvanna could be clawing her way from the Deep Roads at this very moment, or starving to death in an underground cavern, or fending off a nest of giant spiders, her mana at a low ebb without Morrigan's potions to assist her-

Such pointless speculation availed her naught. She settled atop a watchtower, talons scraping against the tiles. The tiny shapes of her daughter and her retinue could be seen returning along the road to Redcliffe, perhaps a day hence. Of course, Ishantha could always choose to fly on ahead, but Morrigan expected her to make a noisy entrance, with as much useless fanfare as she could muster.

She was quite possibly the last person in Thedas that Morrigan wished to speak with, but they would have to meet - and soon. If she came in person, that meant Sylvanna was still living; she would not have dragged herself from South Reach otherwise. A flicker of hope lit in Morrigan's heart; she dropped from the watchtower, wings outstretched. There were limits to Ishantha's powers, true, but she possessed the soul of an Old God; surely stone and dirt posed no obstacle to her?

_Perhaps if she had come a week, two weeks prior,_ a voice suggested to Morrigan. _Who's to say what might be uncovered, should she even succeed? Best to leave it buried, beneath the ground, never to see the light of day..._

Morrigan shuddered. She would give Ishantha no choice, her own fears be damned. The girl would assist to the utmost of her abilities; she would make sure of it, no matter how many tricks or petty illusions she tried to conjure, no matter how she might protest.

After all, Morrigan was still her mother's daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to: Asher77, interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, often indecisive, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
> 
> Yes, I'm deliberately drawing out the time before returning to Sylvanna's POV. Actually, the working title for this update was 'This Chapter's Mostly Filler'. We'll cut back to Team Darkspawn in the next one, I promise.
> 
> DA2 Update: I still haven't finished playing. I'm close to the end of Act 2, I think. Why are there hardly any fics about the female LIs? I would totally ship them together, temporarily. It'd be cute!


	36. The End of Innocence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don't know about you, but I'm finding it IMPOSSIBLE to write Origins stuff so soon after DA2. For the love of the Dalish, someone put me out of my misery and write Merrill femslash. Or anything to do with Meredith. Please?
> 
> With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> It's Team Darkspawn time again. Consider yourselves warned.

** Recap - Sylvanna, the Architect, Eadric - chapter 33 **

[The Deep Roads]

Sylvanna: Even dream!Alistair wants to kill me. *sniffle*

Eadric: Can you really blame him?

Sylvanna: No, but-

Eadric: Then quit whining.

Architect: Eadric, please. Manners.

Sylvanna: I haven't had a proper POV for fifteen chapters, and this is what you give me? Roasted deepstalker and some fungus-based drugs?

Architect: Believe me, it could be worse.

Sylvanna: How much worse?

Architect: Exponentially worse.

Sylvanna: Why did you want me here again?

Architect: The Old God threatens the existence of both our races. She must be destroyed-

Sylvanna: LALALA NOT LISTENING!

Architect: Very well. Allow me to reflect upon my efforts to build a super-race of darkspawn, at the same time as curing your inconvenient delusions.

Sylvanna: That was actually... quite nice. Do that again?

Architect: I intend to.

Sylvanna: Yay!

* * *

**The Deep Roads**

"My bruises have bruises."

The female warden was surprisingly accommodating, though much of that docility could be attributed to the madcap. It hardly served to dull the sting of failure. The Architect had spent the last few days attempting to remove the psychic damage caused by the Old God, to no avail. Time was running short. Soon he would have to make a decision: continue on, risking all he had worked for, or end the project prematurely and renew his efforts in reaching the other grey warden.

He glanced at her. She wore an expression of confused dismay as she turned over her arm, revealing discolouration on the underside. He preferred humans. They generally had more blood to give.

"It will heal," he said, cleaning his lancet. The cuts he had given her were particularly small. It would not take long for the flesh to recover.

"I could do it." Her face brightened at the thought. "Then you'd be able to withdraw more each time."

"So you have told me." He had trusted the last grey warden, Devony. She had not even been a mage, and yet her actions had caused untold damage. He would never make such a mistake again. The warden would simply have to cope without magic, at least until his project reached completion.

She pouted, kicking her heels against the legs of the stool. The gesture seemed to serve no purpose. If questioned, she would likely be unable to provide a reason for the behaviour. Over time, the Architect had learnt to ignore such mannerisms.

She stood and reached for a mug of water, draining it in a few short moments.

"You are bleeding," he said.

"Oh?" She glanced at her arm, a puzzled look on her face.

"Behind you."

She turned, then ran her fingers down over the back of her robes, finding the patch where blood had seeped through. She made a sound of dismay, her face cycling through various shades of red. Curious. It seemed to be a mannerism endemic to surface races, though he could not fathom its usefulness; Seranni had been much the same. It was a pity her sister had failed to bring him the male grey warden. Velanna's loss had been unexpected and highly inconvenient.

"Would you like to change clothes?" he asked. In the Architect's experience, it was best to offer a reasonable degree of amenity; a surfeit of cleanliness could only aid his experiments.

She nodded, still flushed, and he rose to find the requested items. He deposited a bundle in her arms, then waited. She failed to move. Perhaps she expected him to turn his back? It seemed imprudent, particularly since he had removed her restraints.

She began to undress and clean herself as best she could. He was pleased to see that her skin remained free from the taint. He had taken care not to accelerate its progression within her. Could a grey warden ghoul destroy an Old God? The Architect could not be certain, and so it seemed wise to be cautious.

She wadded a bunch of rags into the bottom of her small clothes before climbing into them. If her cycle followed the normal pattern, it would be another week and a half to a fortnight before she would be in prime condition to be made into a broodmother. It would be a waste, but if he failed, he could hardly make much use of her whilst she lacked free will. The greater waste would be to do nothing at all. A fortnight was probably sufficient to determine whether his project would succeed.

He sincerely hoped it would. Newborn sharlocks were hardly conducive to a peaceful research environment. In any case, he would have to ask Eadric to scout locations for another spawning site, somewhere far away from here. Darkspawn were much like surface organisms in that regard: more than one queen in a nest was a recipe for disaster. The Mother had managed to bring other females together without instigating significant territorial disputes, but he was certain that he could not replicate her achievement.

"You have no children of your own," he said, as she finished dressing.

She seemed surprised. "I haven't birthed any, if that's what you mean. Grey wardens can't."

"That is untrue. Many grey warden females have produced healthy offspring."

Her expression changed before she turned away from him. So she had desired children. In his experience, most organisms did. "The ability to beget life is a gift. The most primal magic of them all. It is a pity you have not experienced the process for yourself."

Silence. She resumed her seat on the stool, her gaze directed at her feet.

Her lack of response was disappointing. The Architect exhaled. "Let us begin."

She placed her hands within his - a little too eagerly, perhaps, but it could not be helped.

"Sleep."

.

.

.

_There appears to be a distinct omission in the subject's memory. Eadric first found her in Valena's chambers, as if she had been drawn there. Yet when I mentioned the incident, she claimed to have no recollection of the event._ __  
__  
_Valena was taken from the same area above ground. Perhaps they had a prior acquaintance. Through further probing, I discovered a tear in the subject's mind - as though the memory had been deliberately removed. To what end?_ __  
__  
_Further exposure to Valena may provoke a change in the enthralment. Is this the key to unravelling the rest of the damage?_ __  
__  
_Perhaps they should meet again, once Valena has fed and is less inclined to be difficult. Additional sedation may be required. I will inform Eadric to make the necessary preparations._ __  


.

.

.

**The Fade**

When she was young, Sylvanna had wanted nothing more than to be normal, to play normal games with other normal children, to grow up to do normal things like become a normal mother and have normal children of her own.

So when she discovered the spark of something other within herself, the teasing mix of power and possibility, the thread of connection between her dreamworld and reality, she tried to snuff it out with all the skill and sensibility of a six-year-old.

(Sylvanna, aged six, had always been clumsy.)

It was her clumsiness that caused her to stumble in the _vhenadahl_, to knock the young sparrow from its nest, Jarlath's taunts ringing in her ears.

But it was that core of something other that doomed her path forever.

The ground was so very far away.

"I can see your small clothes," Jarlath taunted, but it was her fault for jarring the nest, and her fault that the sparrow fell.

In the space between one moment and the next, something shifted in the air. Something called out, guiding her, and she reached through the Veil and grasped power within her fist.

Everything changed.

Energy spread through her limbs, making her as light as a feather. In comparison, the world decelerated to a crawling pace. Jarlath moved sluggishly below, any sounds he may have made distorted into a low growl, the words indistinguishable. She reached out a hand, impossibly fast, and caught the bird before it could fall further.

Sylvanna's heart beat once, and time restored itself. The sparrow joined its nest mates with a trill of frightened indignation, its voice as loud and shrill as ever.

Jarlath stared at her. With hindsight, Sylvanna could recognise that look in his eyes as one of fear; when she was small, she had seen only his disgust and rejection. "You're a freak, Surana," he said, and perhaps she was; perhaps she always would be. "They're going to take you away to live with all the other freaks. You'll never come back here again."

"I don't want to go," Sylvanna said, clinging to the branches. "Please don't tell them. Please?"

Jarlath shook his head. She wanted him to yell at her, to call her names, to do anything except stare at her in condemnation. He ran off without saying another word, and when he left, the emptiness closed around her like a shroud.

A week later, the templars came.

.

.

.

**The Deep Roads**

Sylvanna woke to the sound of dripping water. She blinked, feeling stone beneath her, metal pressing against her wrists. Her cell, then.

The water was nearby. She tilted her head, seeing a puddle on the floor before her. It reflected the phosphorescence coating the walls, creating diffuse colours. Each drip disturbed the pattern, the image reforming only to be broken again.

The light shifted on the water. Movement. A shadow? She watched it approach, pausing every time a droplet hit the surface, then moving again. Towards her.

She closed her eyes and deepened her breaths, feigning sleep. Eadric rarely observed her for very long; a few minutes at a time, usually. In the tower, they had not been friends - Jowan had never liked him - and so his reasons for behaving in such a manner were a mystery.

"I know you're awake," he said. He sounded close. Close enough to be within the cell bars. She opened her eyes, seeing only the puddle and the ground before her. "Can you hear it? Can you hear the Song?"

"What Song?"

A rush of movement behind her, and his hands clamped down upon her shoulders; he shook her until her chains rattled, bruises forming beneath his fingertips. "Urthemiel's Song. The buzzing. The humming. Words crawling within my skull, so distant - so beautiful..."

She pushed him away. "You're tainted," she said, her gaze flicking to the closed door, its bars gleaming a sullen grey. "But you don't look like one of them."

Aside from the milky sheen over his irises and the occasional dark marks on his skin, there was no transformation, no purpling along the arms, no bald patches. He still retained his hair and full use of his hands, no blackening there along the veins, nor talons emerging where there should have been nails.

Eadric laughed. "I have the Architect to thank for that," he sneered. "Inside, my flesh is rotten. See?" He drew a knife, the sound grating on her ears, and the blade flashed across his palm. Dark blood welled to the surface, smelling like dead meat. Sylvanna wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"I miss the world above," Eadric whispered. "Sun and rain, the scent of grass underfoot..." He leant closer, and she scraped her back against the wall as she drew away. "Did you know he plans to make you a broodmother?"

Her skin crawled at the word. "That's impossible. He promised me-"

"He lied." Eadric knelt and crept towards her, lips pulled back in a mockery of a grin. His hands latched onto her arms, just above her elbows, and she froze, heart hammering in her chest. His nostils flared, and he leant in until she felt his breath foetid on her cheek.

"It's not too late," Eadric crooned. His gaze wandered down her body before returning to her face, and she forced her mind to go blank. He reached out, stroking the scars on her cheek. Fingers tangled in her hair and she screwed her eyes shut, biting her lip until she tasted iron. "You can still be spared that destiny."

He pulled away and she peered up, trying to see him in the shadows. Her manacles clanked as she felt along the ground, searching for a stone or a sharp edge, something she could use, but finding nothing. His knife flashed again, this time cutting deeper, his blood dripping onto the dirt at her feet.

Sylvanna drew her knees in to avoid the splashes, her back flush against the wall. "What are you-"

"I'm saving you," he hissed, and began to cast, the words settling on the air like warm breath in winter. She knew this spell - had allowed Morrigan to use it on her before, but never-

He grabbed the chain leading to her manacles and tugged, dragging her back towards the centre of the cell. Her heels scrabbled against the dirt, wrists aching as steel bit into her skin. "Eadric, stop."

Milky eyes gleamed in the darkness. His lips ceased moving, the incantation at an end; a brief struggle, and his knife sliced into her arm, from elbow to wrist. "Your blood will reverse my transformation," he said, and she felt them joining with a rush of agony, setting her nerves aflame. They both cried out; his fingers dug into her skin with an inhuman strength to stop her from thrashing. Her head swam, bright sparks flashing before her eyes as the spell emptied her veins into his. With the Architect's constant demands, she had little enough to give, but Eadric intended to take more than just a vial.

It would fail. She knew this even as she fought for control, her nails scrabbling at his face. There was no way to undo what had been done to him, to make his dead flesh whole again. He would fail, and she would die for nothing.

She heard Morrigan's voice at the back of her mind. _The caster controls the speed and the direction. The passenger may remark upon the view_.

It was not true - could not be true. She ceased struggling, forcing herself to go limp as the blood drained from her body. _Focus_.

Suffocated by his weight, her lungs burned for breath, the desperate need for survival overriding all her senses. He was talking again, but it took a monumental effort to make sense of the words. "I'll destroy what's left," he promised. "He won't feed you to the other one."

She ignored him, feeling her way through his magic. Even without casting, she should be able to find it - there.

Blood magic relied on the pace of the caster's heart, on the ebb and flow of their body's rhythms. It should have been easy for her, as a healer, to know just how to manipulate the connection between them, to reverse the spell. It should have been easy. Shouldn't it?

Grabbing handfuls of her hair, Eadric cracked her head against the ground. "You ungrateful bitch."

As her concentration slipped, so did his. She slammed her knee into his groin, pushing herself away from him as he recoiled. Scrambling to put distance between them, she reached for the other side of the cell, before Eadric grabbed the hem of her skirt.

_Those long robes will be the death of you,_ Morrigan's voice chided.

Sylvanna screamed. Eadric's hands flashed, preparing to finish the spell. He would kill her. He would kill her, and she would never see the sun again, or feel Morrigan's lips upon hers, or taste the summer harvest.

It wasn't fair.

She matched her heartbeat to his own, closing her eyes. Inhaling, she twisted his magic, granting it a new form and direction.

Eadric's voice took on a panicked edge. "Stop that - don't-"

There was no time. She had lost too much. She let it all flow into her, mingling as one, the corruption scorching her veins as though it were molten lava.

Sylvanna threw back her head and shrieked, the sound reverberating through the stone below and above, her pain and rage paralysing Eadric until he froze in place. With the agony came awareness, a rush of consciousness so intense she could do nothing more than to surrender in its wake.

_"Does it hurt?" she asked Morrigan. "Changing forms?"_

_"On occasion. When the transformation is forced; when the mage is unwilling or lacks sufficient skill."_

_"Does it hurt a lot?"_

_Morrigan eyed her with a smirk. "'Tis the most exquisite agony imaginable. So, yes. Yes, it truly does."_

The act of becoming was inevitable from the moment Eadric cast his spell; less certain were the paths before her. Beneath the torment, there was understanding: a promise, the warm breath of life in exchange for the loss of her resistance.

It was the kind of bargain that would have made a demon proud, but she seized it all the same, with the desperation of a drowning man struggling to draw breath. Sylvanna raised her manacles, slamming her fists against Eadric's cheek. New strength filled her limbs as she continued to strike, bone cracking as she broke his jaw.

He fell back, hands raised before him. He hit the far end of the cell and she pounced, no room for pity as she straddled his body and struck out with mindless hatred. His flesh made wet, squelching sounds, noises that might have been words, pleading for mercy, but all she heard was the rush of blood in her ears and the beating of her heart, like the drumming of a military tattoo.

When the mist finally cleared from her vision, Eadric was most assuredly dead.

She lowered her hands, breathing heavily, her fingers bruised and sore. A sudden rush of vertigo forced her to close her eyes, clutching the cell bars with wet palms that slipped against the steel. At the back of her mind, she could hear it now: the echo, the strain of melody that had driven him to despair. It sounded like a lullaby. Like a child's sweet voice, soothing her to sleep.

Sylvanna sank to her knees and simply listened, heedless of the gore covering her from head to toe. She knew that voice. It beckoned to her, soft and filled with yearning; the voice of a God.

She had to find it. She turned to the lumpy, fleshy thing beside her, scrabbling at the corpse, her hands clumsy. Eadric's body made a sickening thump as she rolled him over, tearing at the keys around his neck. Despite her shaking fingers, eventually her manacles unlocked with a click, leaving her free.

Free.

The darkness seemed not so opaque, not any more. There were colours all around her, an entirely new spectrum of sharp edges and textures. She knelt by the puddle in her cell, pushing the hair back from her face.

Her irises were coated in a white film. She blinked, and peered again, but it was no trick of the light.

Forcing herself to her feet, she stumbled to the door. A turn of the key, and it swung open with a long, slow creak.

She walked out, and stopped. Which way to the surface? The passageway stretched before her, empty and dark. She could not - would not - go near where it was, which left only one option.

She placed one foot in front of the other and followed the Song, trusting it to lead her home.

.

.

.

Footsteps approach, disturbing her sweet slumber. She raises her head, sniffing the air. Elf?

Within moments she is awake, beginning to salivate. She sniffs again. There is something wrong with this elf, and she growls, her fury rising. The taint-smell is stronger, turning the meat bitter and foul.

Still. It will not do to be wasteful.

Her meal draws near with noisy, haggard breaths, and she writhes in eagerness, her limbs waving in the air like a graceful sea creature. No servant this time following it, threatening to steal her kill. She thought to eat the eyes first, but perhaps the soft flesh of the cheeks will be sweeter.

The elf enters her chamber, just beyond her reach. She smiles in the darkness and waits for it to approach.

"I - I know you."

Sounds fall from its mouth, twisting inside her mind. A language she recalls only vaguely. Why does her meat speak?

"I don't - I don't remember... Valena?"

She growls, her teeth snapping. No more words. No names, no thoughts of laughter and kind faces. Only the darkness, and the dreams, and the Song. Nothing more.

Her meal whimpers, clutching at its skull with sharp, frantic motions. "Oh, Maker. Oh dear Maker, what did she do?"

This must end. She extends her limbs, stretching them as far as they can reach, but it is still not far enough. Her meal continues to make noises, and she beats her limbs against the walls, to drown out the words.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Oh Valena, forgive me."

She shrieks, high-pitched and raw, and at last the noises stop, changing to different words, ones that hold no meaning for her. They rise in a rhythm beneath her screams, a counterpoint, their voices creating harmony through the darkness.

The pain, when it comes, is almost a relief, promising an end to the hunger, and a return to the Song; to the darkness that cradles her, as a mother would nurse a child.

.

.

.

The Architect searched for her when she failed to arrive at the appointed time. He examined her cell first, finding Eadric's body lying in a pool of his own blood. A shameful waste. He rolled the corpse over, noting his wounds. The strength required to cause such injuries should have been beyond her reach. Interesting.

Contingency plans ran through his mind, one new scheme each second, and he forced himself to calm. Without further data, it was impossible to make a sensible judgement. His disquiet only grew when the blood led him further south, little drips marking the way like something from a story. First the trail. Then the witch.

He paused and felt for her. Warden blood lacked the clarity associated with true darkspawn. Each of his warden-companions had been known to him by blood: he remembered Utha's taint having a solid, grounded resonance; Eadric's had been much sharper. It was the latter he felt now, or some variation upon it. Slowly, the Architect began to suspect how Eadric had died.

When fleshy growths appeared along the walls, he put his hand to them, expecting to feel warmth, the spark of growing life. Nothing. He picked up his pace, breaking into a run until he reached Valena's inner chamber.

The Architect stopped in his tracks.

There were pieces. Everywhere. The air smelled like lightning and the pungent odour of burnt meat. Something dripped from the ceiling, and he glanced up. Shreds of flesh clung to the cavernous roof, frozen in place and only now thawing. The floor was slippery with ice and liquified fat, blood melting to form an organic slurry.

His subject sat in the middle of a widening pool of gore, feet bare, arms wrapped around her knees. She too was covered in pieces of flesh, scattered through her hair and staining her clothes.

He observed. Her breath came short and quick, heartbeat far beyond the healthy range for surface races. The palpitations were consistent with mages who had overextended themselves. The Tevinter Imperium had documented many such cases, and treatises on the subject would fall into his possession from time to time. It surprised him that she still lived.

It took a considerable effort, not to treat her like a rabid dog that had just savaged a beloved child. First Eadric, then Valena. The former was only of trifling concern, but Valena - he had worked on her for months. It would have been Wintermarch when she gave birth, providing him with the first actual results from his research.

It would be so easy to kill her. But would that salvage his efforts, or advance his cause? The grey wardens had a saying: _in death, sacrifice_. How ironic that he could see its meaning only now.

He extended a hand, and she stared at it, blindly. Her lip trembled, and when she raised her chin, her eyes shone white and gleaming.

Ah. So his theory had been correct.

He waited, his hand outstretched. Once, when he had been clearing the caverns for habitation, he had been forced to kill a deepstalker matriarch and most of her brood. She had recently birthed, and one of the pups had reached out for him in the dark, still blind and mewling.

She placed her hand within his, and he helped her rise to her feet. It took little effort to support her weight as they walked, although their crawling pace began to irritate him long before they reached his laboratory.

He stood aside, waiting for her to enter. She looked up at him then, eyes bright with moisture and the knowledge he had striven for so long to uncover.

"Kill me," she whispered. "Please, kill me."

Somehow, considering the losses it had entailed, success was not quite as satisfying as the Architect had once imagined it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to: Asher77, Bad Girl762, interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, often indecisive, Spikesagitta, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
> 
> Metroidvania gets a cookie for anticipating one of the outcomes of this section over thirty chapters ago, long before the darkspawn were introduced. The Architect only wishes he had your foresight.


	37. Complications

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I wrote this chapter before playing DA2, but I find it really awkward thinking of Awakening-era Anders now.
> 
> With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - Alistair, Anders, Guillaume, Avernus - chapter 34 **

[Soldier's Peak - flashback]

Sylvanna: I'll just drink whatever's in this suspicious-looking bottle-

Thetus: *breaks it*

Sylvanna: Aww! Now I'll never get the achievement!

Alistair: Foreshadowing much?

[End flashback]

Guillaume: Avernus. Can we trust him? Haven't you noticed how similar his codex entries are to someone else's? Someone whose name starts with 'A', who also performs unethical experiments?

Alistair: We'll kill him if he betrays us. Just chill, okay?

Guillaume: Fine. In the meantime, I'm locking up this cat.

Pounce: *plaintive meow*

[The Fade]

Morrigan: Ugh. You are the second-last person I wished to see.

Alistair: Oh no you don't! I'm the one who's mad at you!

Morrigan: Be silent, before our daughter finds us.

Alistair: Isn't there a rule about not leaving children unattended?

Morrigan: Indeed. One can never be too careful. For instance, an Old God might abduct the sole heir to Ferelden...

Alistair: ?

[Soldier's Peak]

Avernus: There is a slight problem with your request.

Alistair: I don't have time! Just spit it out!

Avernus: Very well. I need grey warden blood and one of you must die. Clear enough?

* * *

**Soldier's Peak**

"This procedure requires one of your lives," Avernus said.

For a long, tense moment, none of them spoke. Alistair found himself, much to his horror, instantly calculating who was the most expendable member of their party, as well as the odds of the others agreeing with him.

When it seemed to grow intolerable, Anders broke the silence. "Not to avoid the subject, but where's Pounce?"

Avernus raised a brow. "A time like this, and all you can think about is your cat?"

"We need a moment to confer," Alistair said. "Could we meet back here, at say-"

"Nightfall." Avernus sniffed, folding his arms over his chest. "My preparations should be complete by then. Assuming that you are still willing to follow through with them."

"Right. Come on, you two." Alistair grabbed hold of Anders, who seemed intent on peering under every table and cabinet. "It's a big keep. I'm sure he's just in the kitchens, or someplace warm."

"He missed breakfast," Anders said, smoothing back his ponytail in a distracted fashion. "Pounce is like a warden. He never misses breakfast!"

"Can we stop talking about your cat?" Guillaume scowled.

They convened in one of the upper rooms of the fortress. Anders insisted on keeping the door ajar, just in case Pounce walked by, wanting to be fed. The mage kept glancing towards the corridor, as if he might stroll in at any moment.

Really, it was as though he had lost a child...

"Is Avernus being honest?" Alistair asked. "Does he really need that much blood?"

Anders flopped into a chair, his frown belying his casual posture. "It's possible," he conceded. "Blood magic is needy. Always asking for more, like a clingy lover, or a hungry cat, or-"

"We get the point." There had to be something else they could do. Maybe Guillaume and Anders could travel to Weisshaupt - surely the wardens there were distant enough to be uninfluenced by the corruption of the old god? In the meantime, Alistair could seek his daughter - without benefit of armies or allies, effectively walking blindly into the hands of Morrigan's child.

"I will volunteer," Guillaume said, interrupting everyone's thoughts. "I am the most senior warden here, after all."

Silence. It was the obvious solution, of course, but the thought of voicing it was distasteful. Alistair found himself relieved that Guillaume had reached the same conclusion.

"No one needs to die," Anders said. "Between Pounce and myself, I doubt Avernus will be capable of draining enough to kill."

Guillaume's jaw tightened. "You will forgive me if I do not want my eternal soul compromised by a demon-infested cat," he growled. "If you will excuse me, Sire, I wish to spend some time in the Chantry." He spun upon his heel and left, the door slamming shut in his wake.

"Is it true?" Alistair asked once the footsteps had faded away, his voice low. "Do you think you could save him?"

Anders rubbed his chin. "Probably," he conceded. "Definitely, if I found Ser Pounce-a-lot. Are you sure you haven't seen him?"

"Your cat is pretty distinctive, Anders. I think I would've noticed it - him." Of course, it might have helped had he not fallen asleep and dreamt of running after apostate witches in the Fade.

Anders sighed. "I'm sure he'll be here by nightfall," he said, not sounding at all convinced.

Alistair bit his lip. He hated saying this, but Anders, whilst a good mage and warden, lacked a certain pragmatism. "Don't over-exert yourself, during the ritual. If it comes to a choice between you or Guillaume - I think you know what to do."

Anders mulled the statement over, raising a brow. "You've changed," he accused.

Anger flared within him, bitter and hot. Of course he had. How could he not? Between Anora and Elissa, between Ferelden and the rest of Thedas - of course he had changed. He would have been a fool not to.

"I'm going to search for Pounce," Anders said, rising. "Your Majesty," he added, before slipping out of the room.

It was just as well. Alistair had rumours to chase.

.

.

.

"You're not safe here, Sire," Levi said, trailing after him like a lost puppy. "The traders all report the same thing: you've been passed off as dead, murdered by the Orlesians, and the princess is dead too-"

"Lies." They had to be lies. He believed Morrigan capable of any cruelty, but killing a child who was worth so much more alive? Surely it could not be so.

Levi inclined his head. "Even so - if you have enemies, now would be the perfect time for them to strike. There are so many visitors travelling in and out, it's impossible to keep track of them all."

"I appreciate your concern, Levi. Believe me, we'll leave as soon as we've got what we came for."

Levi blanched. "The blood mage? You're really dealing with him? Well, you know best, Sire. As long as there aren't more demons coming through the Veil-"

"There won't be." It was almost nightfall. He had to find Anders.

Seeing Alistair's expression, Levi bowed himself out, mumbling something about a stock-take. Alistair wasn't listening.

He searched Anders' room first, rapping on the door. It swung open at his touch, so he stepped forwards.

His foot met with tension and he promptly overbalanced, rolling to avoid landing flat on his face. A vile-smelling liquid splashed over his tunic, and he recognised the smell immediately.

Magebane.

From there on, everything else was instinct: his sword, sliding out of its sheath, sweeping towards the soft sound at his right, resistance jarring his fingers as the blade sliced through armour and into flesh. There were two - no, three - in the room, their shapes barely visible despite the sunlight, as silent as cats. He manoeuvred his back to the wall, and called upon the verses which had been drilled into his head:

_Though all before me is shadow,_ _  
_ _Yet shall the Maker be my guide._

Light burst in the centre of the room, radiant with justice. It was that light, more than anything, that kept him clinging to the shreds of his faith; made him ponder whether there was, indeed, a Maker, and whether He would look favourably upon what Alistair was about to do.

The assassins reeled, momentarily paralysed. Alistair had faced worse odds before. Clearly these were no Crows, or if they were, their standards had dropped considerably.

He was fast on his feet, when he had to be. Without the weight of his usual armour, there was nothing stopping him from dispatching each of the assassins in turn, with an economy of motion that would have made Leliana proud.

He stopped short of killing the last one, pressing his sword against the man's throat. "Who sent you?" he demanded, his blade drawing a thin red line.

The man's eyes rolled in his head. "Ugfh," he gurgled, and frothed at the mouth, slumping in Alistair's grasp.

Alistair let the body fall with a sound of disgust. He wiped bloodied hands on his tunic, glancing at the remnants of the tripwire.

_Anders_.

He ran into the corridor, clutching his sword. His own room was empty, as was Guillaume's. Alistair glanced around in despair. Where did Anders say he was going? To find his cat?

His head suddenly exploded with pain, and he doubled over, his empty stomach reeling. Someone had just used magic. A lot of it. The Veil was thin enough at Soldier's Peak; if another demon broke through again...

He picked up the pace, stairs creaking beneath his feet. Another surge of magic set his ears ringing, and he reached out with his senses, uncertain if he truly wished to know what he would find. The Veil still held, but he could feel how worn it was, fragile as a wafer. He had to find the source soon, and silence it.

Anders' taint called to him as he neared, an appallingly strained whisper. He found the mage buried under a pile of bodies: good armour, expensive weaponry; better than the average merc.

"Anders," he said, rolling a corpse from over him and shoving it to one side. "Anders-"

The mage's eyes snapped open. "Behind you," he croaked.

Alistair struck out blindly with the pommel of his sword. He turned to see a woman slumped over by his side, her skull partially collapsed as though she had been crushed by an impossible force, daggers glistening with both blood and a suspiciously dark fluid.

There was no time to pull his blows, not with Anders hurt, poisoned and possibly dying. Alistair slew her without a trace of remorse, barely pausing to tug his sword free from her body.

Anders levered himself onto his elbows, coughing up blood. "Alistair... the Veil. You have to fix it."

Alistair looked at him with despair, but Anders was right. If a demon made its way through, they would both be in danger.

He let his senses wander, drawing out the shape of the weakness in his mind. The Veil had been mended here before, but the Peak itself remembered the times when it was torn. The demon within Sophia had ruled for two centuries. Such a presence left traces, echoes. Add to that a mage's unrestrained use of power, and - well. It created one ungodly mess.

From across the other side, he could hear whispers, the words indistinguishable. The air around them shimmered, dark shadows pressing up against the edges where the Veil was weakest.

"Alistair, now!"

He focused. The whispers grew more insistent; he thought he could make out a word, here and there: _release us, little mortal_...

Beneath his watch, the remnants of the Veil knitted together, a mish-mash of painfully thin strands threading over the barest patches. The voices howled in fury, echoing madly within his skull, their cacophony a soaring wave of hatred. He was a king. More than that, he was a grey warden; he had faced an archdemon and suffered a whole Blight's worth of nightmares. The voices of demons meant nothing to him.

He sank to his knees once it was done, hands trembling from the effort. It would have to suffice.

"Anders?" He shook the mage by his shoulders. "Anders, wake up!"

Anders' eyes fluttered, and he coughed, blinking. "I can still hear them," he said in a low voice.

"I know." Alistair slipped an arm around him. "Can you walk?"

Anders clung to him, breath unsteady. "Avernus' tower should have wards. I saw them," he added, leaning heavily on Alistair. "Mine are prettier."

"Uh huh."

A trickle of blood seeped down the side of Anders' face. Alistair sheathed his sword, using both arms to support him.

"People," Anders drawled, "will say we're in love."

Alistair looked at him. His skin was frighteningly pale, clots of blood matting his hair. One arm hung limp at his side, the other pressed firmly over his ribs where blood was soaking through his robes. "Not unless I carry you all the way to the tower," he said, only half-joking.

"Sod that."

Together, they limped down the stairs. If he were an assassin, now would be the perfect opportunity to strike. Alistair remained tense, ears pricked for any sound other than Anders' ragged breathing or their heavy footsteps, but it seemed, for once, that the Maker favoured them.

.

.

.

"He did what?"

"Young man, please refrain from shouting in my study." Avernus brushed an invisible speck of lint from his desk, and frowned. "And move yourself. My eyes aren't what they used to be, and you are blocking my light."

Alistair remained where he was. "You did the ritual without us? Why?"

Avernus gave up on whatever he was writing. "You'll note that nightfall was some hours ago. Your friend volunteered himself. I saw no reason to delay."

Alistair's hands clenched and unclenched. "Is Guillaume-"

"Dead?" Avernus glanced out the window, eyes scanning the stars. "Probably not. Come back tomorrow morning, you can retrieve the body then."

"You don't even know?" Alistair shook his head, aghast. "Where is he?"

Avernus eyed him over the top of his desk. "I warded the room to avoid contamination. Neither I, nor yourself, nor your fine blond friend who, might I add, is still bleeding out in the adjoining room, will be able to enter until the spell has finished."

Alistair cursed. Avernus returned to his writing.

"At least do something for Anders!" Alistair shouted.

Avernus winced, his mouth twisting in a scowl. "If it will remove you from my study. There are poultices on the top shelf in the next room. The ones sealed with red wax, mind; I wouldn't touch the others."

Alistair stared at the blood mage, who studiously ignored him. Hands clenching into fists, he finally spun on his heel and left, searching for the promised poultices.

Anders was half-asleep on a sofa when he returned, arms filled with dusty bottles. Anders' lids fluttered, and he groaned, one arm curled protectively over his ribs.

"Don't move," Alistair said. He peeled back a corner of one of Anders' bandages, wincing at what he saw.

"You're telling me. Ow! Not so fast! Didn't Wynne teach you anything?"

Alistair gritted his teeth. "I'm trying! Just hold still!"

Anders grumbled under his breath, but submitted to Alistair's clumsy ministrations. He had tentatively suggested taking more lyrium to heal himself, but had dropped the idea at Alistair's look of abject horror. In his condition, and with the Veil so thin... even Avernus' wards wouldn't save them if something went wrong.

"Enough with the bandages," Anders ordered. "Andraste's tits, I feel like a parcel wrapped for Satinalia. All you need is a bow and a card with some sort of jolly slogan. _Happy holidays, darling... have a half-dead apostate, just what you always wanted._"

Alistair snorted. "You're not half-dead. And you're not an apostate, you're a grey warden."

"Once an apostate, always an-"

"Shouldn't you be resting?" Alistair tried in despair.

Anders quietened. The fire crackled in the hearth, and outside, an owl sounded a long, lonely call. "Not yet."

Alistair glanced at him. Anders' fingers twitched, as if aching to fiddle with something. Maybe he ought to try to find that damnable cat. It would undoubtedly make the whole situation a lot less dire.

On second thoughts, stumbling on alone, in the dark, in a huge fortress filled with people who potentially wanted him dead was possibly not such a great idea.

Anders cleared his throat. "Did the ritual kill-"

"No," Alistair said, hoping it was true. "Guillaume's still alive." Probably.

"Hmm. In that case, do you know who was after us?"

Alistair had taken a closer look at the assassins, or at least, at what they were wearing. He would recognise Wade's mark anywhere. The armourer had suffered a disagreement with Osric years ago - something about his artistic integrity, no doubt. Wade and Herren had moved back from Amaranthine to Denerim, swiftly regaining their old clientele. Anyone of consequence in the capital wore designs by Wade.

Did that mean...? He could scarcely believe it, but nothing else seemed to quite add up. Did Hernays want him dead so badly? And what of his daughter, what plans were in store for her?

"They weren't Antivan," Alistair said.

Anders chuckled, and then coughed, bringing a handkerchief to his mouth. He eyed the resulting blood specks with what seemed to be resignation. "Clearly, else neither of us would be here."

That was enough to give Alistair hope. Maybe they had killed all of them. Maybe he could sneak out of here, tonight, and-

And do what? Morrigan had given him no indication of where they had taken his daughter. For all he knew, she could be half-way to Tevinter by now.

_A stuffed dog, discarded beside a small hand, outstretched, blood seeping through a bright blue pinafore, golden curls meticulously clean, a fly hovering, pausing, settling upon one unblinking eyeball..._

"Alistair. Alistair."

He looked up with a start. "What?"

Anders peered at him. "Copper for your thoughts?"

Alistair sighed. "Bad news. I-" He stopped. The story sounded ridiculous, even to himself. He considered for a moment, and then launched into it, fumbling with the words. His daughter, Morrigan and the Fade, meeting with Levi and discussions with the other traders. Anders nodded grimly throughout, though Alistair suspected that much of his earnest concentration was simply to distract himself from the pain of his injuries.

"She won't be harmed," Anders said. "Not if she's with the Old God."

Alistair grimaced. "I hope you're right."

Anders pinched the bridge of his nose. "They're sisters, aren't they? Morrigan wouldn't dare harm her. You'll see."

Somehow, that made it sound even worse.

Anders settled back into his cushions, eyes blinking shut. "We'll find her when we find the Old God," he said, the words slurring together. "One big, happy family."

Alistair took a chair by the fire. His hands felt useless, empty, so he set his sword across his knees, wiping off the blood that had dried upon it.

He snuck a glance at Anders. The mage's head lolled to the side, his chest rising and falling with gentle movements. It felt familiar, this vigil. Same story, different mage. It gave him an odd feeling, a tightness behind his ribs that he tried to ignore, concentrating on polishing the tiny nicks and blemishes on his blade.

He could sneak out, in an hour or so. Anders would never wake in time, and by then, he could be gone... somewhere... chasing a rumour across the Bannorn.

Alistair sighed. He wasn't going anywhere. Anders trusted him, as odd as that seemed; a former apostate and a would-have-been templar. No demon was going to peek through the gossamer-like Veil on his watch.

He only hoped he was doing the right thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to: Asher77, Auroraas, interesting2125, KyaniteD, Metroidvania, Misdirection, mutive, often indecisive, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
> 
> Imo, Isolde provides a precedent for blood magic requiring a life, singular (rather than taking blood from multiple sources - since there were several young, healthy people at Redcliffe who could've been suitable, the warden's party aside). Quite possibly Avernus knows far more than Jowan, and could manage, but I expect that he prefers to take the path of least resistance considering that he doesn't value other people's lives very highly.
> 
> Of course, Alistair probably should have discussed this with Avernus earlier, but the poor boy had other things on his mind.
> 
> I know Anders seems to get hurt a lot, but it's mostly because he's not the POV character. Also, mages are incredibly squishy.


	38. No Such Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: As always, with many, many thanks to oneplusme for the beta and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> Warning for suicidal ideation.

** Recap - Sylvanna, the Architect - chapter 36 **

[The Deep Roads]

Sylvanna: Ooh! Bruises!

Architect: Your enthusiasm is commendable.

Sylvanna: Whee drugs!

Architect: One moment while I objectify your body and contemplate the horror of many thousands of shriek babies.

Architect: ...

Architect: Moment over. You may proceed.

Sylvanna: Oh dream!sparrow, I guess I saved you after all. But at what cost?

Eadric: *creepily watches*

Sylvanna: What're you doing?

Eadric: Curing myself of the darkspawn infection using your slightly-less-tainted blood.

Sylvanna: That won't work! Didn't you attend Blood Magic 101?

Eadric: Some of us weren't fortunate enough to train under a Witch of the Wilds. (Geddit? Under?)

Sylvanna: You should die for that pun.

Eadric: Noooooooooooo!

Eadric: Oh, fine. Have my blood. Much good it'll do you.

Sylvanna: asfj#Q%&amp;!11!1!

Valena: Smells like ghoul. Eh, still edible.

Sylvanna: Valena. Somehow being in your presence unravels a decade's worth of enchantments. Feel special now?

Valena: No. Just hungry.

[Later]

Architect: Helpful assistant: dead. Beloved experimental broodmother: dead.

Architect: At least my project to restore the warden's free will appears to be successful.

Sylvanna: I'm going to have a breakdown now.

Architect: If you must.

* * *

**The Deep Roads**

The first day after the change, the subject did nothing. Periodically, the Architect had to ensure that she was still breathing. She failed to acknowledge his presence, or give any indication of life save for the hum of the taint, emanating from her blood. He spent the rest of the time salvaging what he could from Valena's remains.

The second day, he coaxed her out of her cell with the intention of talking. Tears leaked from her eyes and a wild keening rose from her throat, disturbing the unenlightened as the sound echoed through the caverns. She tore at her hair, ripping out strands until he replaced her manacles, preventing further injury. The weeping became intolerable within the first hour, and he led her back to her cell where the noise would not disturb him.

The third day, he carefully fed her a little lyrium, rubbing the potion over her cracked lips. Her eyes snapped open, glowing with desire and she lunged for the rest of it, clawing at him like a blight wolf. He stepped back, beyond reach of her chains, and made a promise: more lyrium in exchange for her compliance. She growled an unintelligible response, deliberately turning away and curling up at the back of her cell.

The fourth day, he found her lying in a pool of blood, her skull a battered mess. She had fallen unconscious before causing sufficient damage to kill herself. Part of him was disappointed that her calculations as to how much force was required were so vastly incorrect. Perhaps she had not accounted for the regenerative qualities of her newly tainted blood. It was a fortunate, albeit sloppy mistake. He tended to her wounds, placing further restraints upon her to make another attempt impossible.

It took another ten days before she consented to speak with him.

"Why are you torturing me?" she demanded, pacing up and down the floor of his study. Mana arced over her skin in tiny blue sparks, her manacles clanking with each step. "I begged you for death. For pity's sake, end this."

"No."

She launched herself at him, screaming insults and all manner of what he suspected were obscene epithets; he prevented her from doing any real damage with an ease that was almost embarrassing. She had barely eaten in the last two weeks; her muscle mass had decreased considerably as her body began to cannibalise itself.

Once her rage subsided, she began to cry again, huddled in a corner of his study with her knees drawn to her chest. He had grown used to such behaviour, mentally compartmentalising the sound until it no longer irritated him.

"Why?" she asked, when she finally decided to be rational. "What do you want from me?"

He had lost count of the number of times he had explained this to her. "Your aid in defeating the Old God."

Instead of an outright denial, she shuddered, drawing in tighter around herself, if that was possible. "I can't see her," she whispered. "Not after what she did to me. What they did. I can't."

The Architect waited for the weeping to begin anew, but instead she fell into silence, rocking her body back and forth. It was an improvement. He returned to his desk, and for a few hours, the only sound heard was the scratching of his quill against the parchment.

When it came time to lead her back to her cell, he stood, prepared to discount the day as another loss. As he approached, she raised her head, affixing him with eyes that shone white over red veins.

"How can I kill Her?"

_Finally_.

.

.

.

Ten years.

Ten years they had kept her, used her, robbed her of her will and her sanity.

Ten years.

Oh, she must have wanted it, somehow, somewhere. The spells would not have been so effective had she not... complied... to some extent.

Ten years.

The sweetness still remained, despite everything, and that was the worst of it. The feeling of the child's soft, fragile skull nestled at her breast, of tiny fingers grasping at her hair - those thoughts floated to the surface, bobbing like pearls emerging unscathed through a sea of filth.

She thought it would be easier simply to hate them, to rage against the cruel injustices they had wrought. She thought it would be easier to hate herself.

She was wrong.

Given a similar situation, she might have done the same. She might have reached out - to anyone - for protection, for succour. Such behaviour could be excused in an infant, helpless, terrified, but not in the being that called itself a god.

She wouldn't have done the same.

Then again, she had never been with child. She had never carried one to term. It did strange things to people, that process of bonding, of growth. That was what Wynne had told her, in any case, so it was probably true.

She hated Morrigan.

She loved Morrigan.

The bards said the two emotions were one and the same, and Sylvanna had never quite believed that, until now.

Which was the lie? Memories beckoned her. A slumbering infant, heavy in her arms, chubby ankles, delicately pointed ears. A voice, naming her, possessing her with its breath; the same voice that called to her now, reaching through her blood: the source of the Song.

She was still a mother, in truth if not in flesh. One choice remained, mocking her with its illusion of agency, but it belonged to her and no one else, and for that reason alone, she would take it.

She would do what she had to do. What the darkspawn wanted her to do.

In the end, she was still someone else's instrument.

.

.

.

Much work remained, but it was easier now given the subject's newfound compliance and understanding. The Architect was unused to the rapidity of emotional change that seemed to plague the female warden. In other circumstances, he might have devoted more effort to taking readings and making notes, but time was a luxury they simply could not afford. Enough had been wasted already.

He dipped a needle in a solution of blue ink, removing the excess. He had tested various pigments on Velanna some time ago, with acceptable results. It was unfortunate that Eadric was dead. He would have preferred to test them again - just in case - but he was running short on subjects.

"Will it hurt?" she whispered.

In his experience, any discomfort tended to be more psychological than physiological. "Only if you move." He tilted her head back until she faced the ceiling, her eyes staring wide and unblinking.

There was an easier way. He whispered a spell, sealing her in place. If only he had thought to try this with Velanna, there would have been no need to endure her caustic remarks or incessant squirming.

Unhindered, he pierced the clear barrier over the warden's iris, depositing a measure of ink. The needle repeated its insertion another dozen times, at different points, pausing in between to renew the pigment. He gave her a moment's peace as he strengthened the spell, and then repeated the procedure on the other eye.

The Architect set down his tools. She would soon be presentable. The thought gave him a flicker of hope, and he quelled the premature feeling of gratification.

She gasped and clawed at her face when the spell broke, doubling over in her seat. "You didn't warn me - oh Maker, it burns."

"The sensation will subside." Much of the discomfort was most likely due to the paralysis, in any case.

"I hate you," she muttered.

"I have not forgotten."

She slowly removed her hands from her face, tilting her chin to look at him. "How long will it last?"

He considered her appearance. Her eyes looked reddened and teary more than anything else; it would take repeated applications, using different pigments before he could release her. Perhaps he should have informed her before they began. "A month or so. I urge you to act as quickly as you can. The longer you remain in contact with the Old God, the greater the risk of discovery, or of re-enthralment."

"Never." She shook her head, hands clenching into fists. "Never again."

The Architect thought it pointless to make such declarations, but remained silent. He picked up a page of his notes, handing it to her.

"What is this?" she asked, glancing down.

"A recipe to remove the somatic effects of the darkspawn blood. Memorise the process before returning to the surface. The potion must be ingested daily. Its effectiveness will wane with continued use."

She scanned the instructions for a few minutes, before raising her gaze to his. "I can't do this."

His lips tightened, before he forced himself to relax. "Neither of us have a choice, Grey Warden."

The parchment crumpled in her fist. "She'll know. She'll smell it on me. I know she will."

For a moment, he briefly wondered which of the two females 'she' referred to. "That is a risk we must take. The possibility of failure decreases if you do not give Her reason to suspect."

She shuddered, and then smoothed out the creased paper. Her hands drifted back to her eyes, wiping the moisture from her face. "I would like to heal this."

"I would prefer if you did not. Use of magic may disrupt the appearance." It was a justifiable reason, though truly he could not afford to let her recover any mana until her release. If she attacked him, he might be forced to kill her, and that would ruin all he had worked for.

She began to weep again, silently this time. Perhaps he should have covered her eyes with gauze. Surely so much moisture was detrimental.

"I can't," she repeated, gasping. "I can't."

"If you fail, it is likely that another Blight will occur before the age has passed. The majority of Blights run unchecked for decades, even centuries of destruction. The fifth Blight was an anomaly. I suspect it will not be repeated."

That stopped her crying, at least. Surface races were all so delicate; even in her corrupted state, she lacked the sheer survivability of a true darkspawn. He supposed he ought to be more furious at Eadric for tainting her, but his foolishness had worked well enough into the Architect's plans, provided that she found the other wardens. The Seeker was due to report on their activities; his tardiness was uncharacteristic. Perhaps he had fallen afoul of those he had been sent to find? The Architect could ill afford to lose more Disciples.

He rose, moving to his shelves of phylacteries. It would be old now - perhaps nine years, but he had enchanted the vials against mould and other contaminants. She only needed one grey warden, after all. Surely this one would do.

He deposited a vial in her hands.

"What is that?" she asked, holding it to the light. Liquid sloshed within the confines of the glass.

"Blood from one of the few wardens in Ferelden who remains uncorrupted by the Old God." At least, the Seeker had said that they were uncorrupted. Hopefully that was still the case, or his plans would be for naught.

Her forehead wrinkled into a frown. "You want me to track a warden - as if I were a templar? I don't know how."

"This may assist you." He reached for one of his books, brushing the copious amounts of dust from its cover. She sneezed before taking it from him.

"_'Phylacteries: A History Written in Blood_'?"

"Use the next few days to study it," he advised. "You will not be able to take the book to the surface, for obvious reasons."

"It's like I never left the tower," she muttered, fingers running over the tome, but he knew she would do as he asked.

After all, what other choice did she have?

.

.

.

"During the process of transition, She will be vulnerable." The Architect had told the warden this more than once, but it bore repeating. She trudged along before him, the hem of her robes dragging against the ground. "It will be nigh impossible to destroy Her otherwise."

She understood. He could see it in her eyes, so gloriously clear, returned to that strange, sky-like blue that was considered normal - healthy - in the surface races. He was inordinately proud of his success; her unblemished skin, her bright crimson blood that sang 'warden' and nothing more. As if Eadric had never happened.

It was a triumph. The perfect illusion. With any luck, the trick would hold.

"Liminality. Neither one thing nor the other." Her voice was a dry, fragile thing, barely a whisper.

"Yes."

"Like me."

He saw no point in confirming what she already knew, and so they continued on in silence, the ground sloping gently upwards. Did she truly understand? Was she prepared to see this to the end? Another chance was unlikely to fall his way - not before the Old God fully matured. Urthemiel would be virtually untouchable if he allowed that to occur. This was his final chance. His means of atonement, for the thousands upon thousands of darkspawn who died during the last Blight. His atonement, for awakening the Old God.

"Stop."

She halted at the word. They could both feel the cool surface air, and she parted her lips as though drinking it in, her eyes closed, face tilted towards the breeze. Ahead of them, a patch of light beckoned, filtering through a gap in the cavern roof.

"The path beyond should be clear." He had seen to it himself, after all. Nothing should stand in the way of her return to the surface.

She stared straight ahead. "I will not fail."

His days were about to become emptier without another warden around. Still, he would have work enough overseeing his contingency plan, should she prove incapable. "I hope not, Grey Warden. For the sake of both our kinds."

The Architect pressed a small vial into her hand. She stared at it, recognition brightening her features. He drew back into the shadows, and watched.

She glanced around wildly for a moment, utterly lost. Undoubtedly she could sense him, as he could sense her, but the shadows were thick where he stood. Her eyes flicked over him, unseeing, and she turned back towards the vial, uncorking it with hands that shook. Once ingested, the lyrium had an instant effect: her shoulders relaxed, a sigh of pleasure escaping her lips. She turned back the way they came - considering, no doubt, her chances of success should she attempt to kill him. He hoped she would leave the temptation alone. She had made a promise to him, after all, and he had assumed she would fulfill it to the best of her ability. Turning on him now would be counter-productive for both of them.

To his satisfaction, she pivoted, taking halting steps towards the light. She stood beneath it for a moment, head bowed, before breaking into a run, her footfalls echoing loudly against the packed earth. He waited until the sound was inaudible, then turned to attend to the rest of his schemes.

He had done all he could. In time, he would learn whether it had been enough.

.

.

.

She felt it long before it came into view. A strange scent, different to the Architect's. For the first time in weeks, she used magic: a simple shield, surrounding her with a faint aura of light.

The Architect had left her unarmed. No matter. The mana within her was sufficient.

"Peace, Grey Warden."

A slithering voice. A shudder ran through her as she raised her hands, bringing another spell to mind. "What do you want?"

The darkspawn came into view, inching towards her from one of the adjoining passages. Its staff remained strapped to its back, its clawed hands held palms-up in a gesture for peace. "I wish to talk," it said, stopping several feet away. It was a squat, misshapen thing, barely as high as her shoulder.

"I have talked and I have talked," Sylvanna spat. "I am sick of talking. Begone."

"Wait." The darkspawn raised its head, sniffing the air. Satisfied with what it found, or didn't find, it turned back to her. "I am to be different to the Architect. I am the Seeker."

One of the Architect's Disciples, then. She failed to see how different one darkspawn could be to another. "Speak quickly, Seeker. Different in what way?"

It took a step closer. She summoned a ball of frost, raising it as a warning gesture. The darkspawn ducked its head, hands ghosting over its skull in a motion that reminded her painfully of Ruck.

"Do not be angry! We are to offer you a request. Do not be hurting the Old God. The Song, it must not be silenced. We wish to seek another way."

Sylvanna let the ice warm, melting from her fingertips. "What other way?"

"The Song can be changed. Bettered! But never silenced. Madness in the silence. No. It must be saved. Kept pure." The darkspawn dared to peek at her through its claws, taking a step closer. Sylvanna stood her ground. "I can give you what you need," it offered, its voice a sibilant hiss, eyes gleaming within a cavernous skull.

"And what do you think I need, Seeker?"

It clicked its teeth together, lips bared. "Vengeance. I can give you the Architect, yes. He seeks to destroy the Old God, to destroy the Song. He must be stopped!"

_Vengeance. _That thought had warmed many a cold night, underground. She had dismissed it as impossible - she would not return to the Deep Roads for anyone, or anything - not even for revenge. But if she could work through another...

She turned to look at the sunlight beckoning around the corner of the passageway, and sighed. Behind her, the darkspawn stood, waiting.

She could use it. Listen to it, consider its offer. If she disliked what she heard, she could always rend its heart from its body. "Very well. Tell me everything."

Its mouth twisted into a lipless grin, and it began to talk.

.

.

.

**Redcliffe**

By some unspoken pact, they had said not a word about Ishantha's transgressions, though Morrigan could see treacherous thoughts slithering behind her daughter's eyes like snakes in a pit. There were more pressing matters at stake.

"No more," Ishantha gasped, lowering her hands. In front of them, a wide pit had been carved into the ground, revealing the fallen rocks and dirt that had almost buried the Redcliffe guardsmen.

Morrigan frowned. "Are you certain of her location?"

"Yes." Ishantha's response was more abrupt than usual. The girl breathed out, turning to face her mother. "Wait. I think I can sense something again. As if she's moving closer."

Morrigan wearied of hoping, of jumping at the slightest noise, thinking it could be her voice, of straining her eyes at the most formless shadow, thinking she could see her shape. She would believe when she felt Sylvanna in her arms again, and not a moment sooner.

"Oh!" Ishantha's exclamation was filled with wonder. "Mother, isn't that-?"

From amongst the rubble, a tiny wisp emerged, pale and flickering in the sunlight. Morrigan reached out a hand, and it danced across her fingertips, radiating no heat though its core seemed to burn with green fire.

"Did you see where it emerged?" Morrigan croaked, her mouth dry.

Ishantha nodded.

"Concentrate your efforts on that location. Carefully, mind."

Her daughter set to work again, her girlish voice filling the clear morning air with the sound of magic. Morrigan could do little but wait and pace, studiously refraining from biting her nails.

When Sylvanna finally emerged, an hour later, she could almost believe that there was a God.

.

.

.

"Sylvanna, you'll catch your death of cold."

No response.

She had spoken not a word since her rescue, not even when Ishantha had burst into tears. Morrigan had politely refrained from disclosing how easily their daughter had discounted her life; there would be time enough for that later.

Sylvanna had sunk willingly enough into her arms, even though it had been all Morrigan could do to avoid gagging on the smell. Honestly, worse than the hound; worse even than the templar. But she supposed that was why they were here, servants and guards and daughter dismissed.

It would be easier if Sylvanna would deign to talk to her.

"The water downstream is largely standing. 'Twould be simple enough to warm." Morrigan swallowed uncomfortably. "Please."

Not even so much as the flicker of an eyelid.

"Sylvanna-"

"Your dagger," she said. The words were delivered in a monotone. She had not shifted an inch, skirts hiked above her knees. Bare feet dangled in a perilously cold stream, the water scarcely warm enough to be moving. She was not even shivering, as far as Morrigan could tell, as though she were made of stone and not flesh and blood.

Morrigan's hand dropped to her hip. "My dagger?"

Sylvanna held out her palm, not caring to rise. Morrigan hesitated, but only for a moment before offering the requested blade. "What are you-"

Sylvanna brought the dagger to her head, slicing off whole hanks of hair, close to her nape. Morrigan winced. True, there had been dried blood and other... less identifiable substances encrusted in there, but nothing a proper, hot bath could not have fixed.

"Was that truly necessary?"

"Yes."

Sylvanna looked positively frightful. The short, uneven cut made her thin face seem even more narrow. Ishantha would not be impressed. The girl loved vanity in all its forms, and was sure to see this as a personal affront.

"Would you please return to the castle, now?" Morrigan asked.

Sylvanna stared at her reflection in the water, head tilted to one side. Fallen leaves drifted downstream, marring her image as they swirled in the eddies. She inclined her head. The dagger glinted in her hand, her knuckles white. Morrigan tried hard not to imagine it buried hilt deep in her own throat.

"Yes," Sylvanna said. "I think that would be for the best."

Morrigan's attempts to assist her to her feet were studiously ignored. This was not unexpected. All she needed was time. Time and patience. After spending a childhood with Flemeth, it was easy for Morrigan to silence the voice of doubt inside her mind.

_Nothing would ever be the same again._

.

.

.

Sylvanna tried climbing into her old, filthy rags after bathing. Morrigan was so horrified, she threw the robes onto the fire, and then instantly regretted it as the fumes from the burning cloth filled the room. During the entire time, Sylvanna responded with barely a shiver of movement, staring glassily before her in a manner that was almost disconcerting.

Patience.

Sylvanna refused all offers of sleep or food, though she was clearly exhausted and unpleasantly thin. Morrigan ought to know. From time to time, Flemeth had permitted her templar companions to stay for extended periods; such sessions had been invaluable in teaching Morrigan about the endurance of the human body and spirit. Since the guests invariably met gruesome ends, she had never learnt what happened when they were restored to their former lives. She suspected she might learn, now.

"I need to talk to you. To both of you," Sylvanna said, not looking her in the eye.

"Very well. I'll summon Ishantha-"

"No." Sylvanna gestured for her to wait. Morrigan caught her gaze for a second, and Sylvanna glanced away, but not before Morrigan saw something there - the first flicker of emotion she had uncovered all day.

Fear.

"Don't go. Tell a servant to bring her."

"If you prefer." Morrigan reached over a settee and rang a bell. Soon the message had been taken by an earnest chambermaid, and they were alone again.

Morrigan placed a hand over Sylvanna's, but the warden drew away at her touch. A pang of dread tightened Morrigan's throat. "Sylvanna, are you-" She paused, unable to even think of what she was truly attempting to ask. Sylvanna seemed physically unharmed, though she could have healed any wounds to the point of invisibility. "Did they-"

"No."

Ishantha's arrival prevented further attempts to glean any information in private. The girl stared at them in horror.

"Mama, your - your hair!"

"It will grow back, Ishantha. Stop fussing," Morrigan snapped.

Ishantha ran her hands over Sylvanna's abused hair, making a noise of dismay. She slipped a wrap from her shoulders, tucking it around Sylvanna's head as a peasant might tie a kerchief, fiddling with the material until it draped to her satisfaction. Sylvanna submitted to the indignity with a complete lack of affect.

"Oh Mama, I wish you hadn't," Ishantha whined. "It looks positively dreadful! Doesn't it look dreadful?" she asked, this last question to Morrigan.

"I fail to see the problem," Morrigan said. Truly, the cumulative effect was quite awful, but it was only hair, after all. Nothing to cry over like some simpering Orlesian flower.

Ishantha petted Sylvanna on the shoulder. "Poor Mama."

Morrigan was forced to note that her daughter was grieving more profoundly over Sylvanna's looks than she had over the woman herself.

Sylvanna reached up and toyed with the silk covering her head. "You should know what happened to me, below."

It was the longest sentence she had spoken all day. Even Ishantha ceased babbling, eyes wide in anticipation. Morrigan cast wards of silence around the room, closing the thick drapes over the window before settling down to listen.

Sylvanna took a deep breath. "They weren't searching for me," she said, her eyes boring into Morrigan's. "They were searching for you."

"The darkspawn?"

Sylvanna nodded. "Some of them are... different. They speak, reason. One of them caused the last Blight."

"The Architect!" Ishantha exclaimed, as though reciting the answer to a lesson.

"Yes." Sylvanna paused, wetting her lips. "It regrets waking you. It wishes you dead."

Ishantha sighed. "And here I thought he loved me."

"Why did the Architect want to capture you? Or I?" Morrigan asked.

Sylvanna's gaze drifted between the two of them. "It believed it could lure Ishantha down underground, if it offered sufficient incentive. It intends to destroy all of the Old Gods. Apparently, the risk of a Blight is too great, threatening the lives of thousands of darkspawn." Her voice cracked on the last word, trailing off into a whisper.

Morrigan frowned. "How did you escape?"

Sylvanna bit her lip. "Not all darkspawn agree with the Architect. Many still long to see - to touch - the Old God, to see her rise again." She reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind Ishantha's ear. A stab of jealousy coursed through Morrigan's heart.

"One of them helped me: the Seeker. It promised to deliver the Architect into our hands."

"Do you believe that this darkspawn speaks truly?" Morrigan asked.

Sylvanna glanced in her direction. "It seemed sincere. I think the risk of betrayal is minimal. All of them want to be close to the Old God; it's a feeling, an urge in the blood, it-" she broke off, swallowing. "The Architect is an anomaly."

"We'll kill him for you, of course," Ishantha said, taking Sylvanna's hands, all sweetness and light, as though she had never been anything else. "We'll kill both of them."

Sylvanna's response was so soft as to be barely audible, but there was no mistaking the curve of her lips, nor the ferocious gleam in her eyes.

"Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to Auroraas, Misdirection, mutive, often indecisive, Spikesagitta, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
> 
> And major props to Crisium for pointing out in 'What We Choose' that the Architect during Awakening is not only collecting warden blood, he has a book on phylacteries in his study.


	39. Questions Unanswered

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - The Architect, the Seeker, Morrigan, Ishantha - chapter 38 **

[The Deep Roads]

Sylvanna: *angsts*

Architect: *ignores her*

Sylvanna: Fine, I'll kill the Old God.

Architect: Good. Have a corneal tattoo and some grey warden blood in a vial. I am certain it will prove useful.

Sylvanna: Do I even want to know whose blood it is?

Architect: It's clearly not yours. That would be pointless.

Sylvanna: Right...

Seeker: The Old God must be saved!

Sylvanna: Why should I listen to you?

Seeker: I can bring you the Architect. Yes! He must be stopped, before he destroys the Song!

Sylvanna: I suppose vengeance has a nice ring to it. All right, talk. Talk fast.

[Meanwhile]

Ishantha: I'm tired of using my godly powers to dig up the arling. Can't I go play now?

Morrigan: No.

Ishantha: Ooh! A wisp! That means-

Morrigan: She's alive.

[Later]

Morrigan: Have you finished angsting yet?

Sylvanna: No.

Morrigan: Could we not do this inside? Someplace warm?

Sylvanna: *cuts off her hair* I suppose we can go now.

Morrigan: *sighs*

Sylvanna: The Architect wants the Old God dead, but the Seeker will help us.

Morrigan: Those inane names aside... help us do what?

Sylvanna: Help us entertain my ridiculously convoluted revenge fantasies, of course.

Morrigan: ...

* * *

**The Deep Roads**

Over the course of his lifespan, the Architect had made many mistakes, each one meticulously documented and scrupulously examined. He had even discussed a few with Utha, seeking her greater understanding of grey warden behavioural patterns and habits.

If forced to rate this mistake, he would place it somewhere between accidentally starting the Fifth Blight and taking First Enchanter Remille at his word. In other words, it was unlikely that the damage could be reversed.

When the dust settled, he carefully shifted, testing his control over his limbs. Both legs were impaired, as was one of his arms, making casting impossible. His free hand slid over the debris, testing the weight of the rock crushing his legs. Perhaps if he had a lever... but his staff remained where he had left it, with his books and papers. Another mistake.

"She will not reward you for these actions, Seeker," he said, his gaze seeking the genlock through the gloom. "Have you forgotten the consequences another Blight would bring?"

The Seeker shifted his weight from foot to foot. "The Old God must be saved," he hissed, voice raw from disuse. "She must know how you would betray Her. She will name me as Her true servant!"

That seemed particularly unlikely. Where had he gone wrong? The Architect had always assumed the Seeker to be rational, stable. A little vicious, perhaps, but no more so than any other darkspawn.

He had been surprised when he had felt the Seeker's presence. The Seeker had been due to report weeks ago, and the Architect had assumed him to be lost, possibly to the grey wardens he had been observing. The Seeker had lured him out of his study with promises of vital data, secrets he had learnt from the old warden mage at the keep. On reflection, he should have been more discerning, particularly after what had happened with Eadric.

The Seeker had indeed learnt something new, either at the hand of the mage warden or somewhere else. The first sign had been the trembling in the ground, the rumblings in the cavern. Neither speed nor levitation had saved the Architect from what came next - the sudden paralysis, the numbing pain, and silence.

Once the ringing cleared from his ears, he had found himself trapped, his body vainly trying to recover from the impact. Given time, even this could be healed, but time was not a courtesy he expected to receive from either the Seeker or the God he served.

He made one last attempt to be reasonable. "The Song is false, Seeker. It offers nothing for our kind apart from slavery and death. The Old God will lead you into the Void, as she has led so many others-"

"No!" The Seeker rounded on him, teeth bared. "She will lead us to victory, as was foretold. She will be our saviour! She-"

The diatribe stopped abruptly, the Seeker twisting his head around, eyes glazed, nostrils twitching. The Architect had detected Her proximity some time ago, but She had been moving closer to them ever since, Her presence becoming more and more unbearable.

Without a further word, the Seeker left the cavern, his taint receding even as the Old God approached. The Architect was left behind in the darkness, his blood telling him that he was alone, conclusive in a way that sight or sound could never be. From above, a settling of the rock caused a patter of dirt to fall upon him, brushing over his robes like the first sprinkling of spring rain.

.

.

.

**Redcliffe**

Mother would not stop fretting. Not that she said as much, but it was plainly obvious: the look of hurt on her face when she found Sylvanna asleep in the servants' quarters instead of her own room; the way she insisted on making conversation when the elf clearly preferred to be left alone.

Sylvanna was hiding something, that much was certain, but it was nothing that Morrigan would find in a hurry. Certainly not if she continued behaving in such a fashion.

It made Ishantha doubt her plans for the future. She had not anticipated Sylvanna's return - who could have known? Still, now Sylvanna was back, it made little difference to her plans. Their family was just going to be slightly larger than she had bargained for, that was all. Nothing to be concerned about.

She had never understood the concept of monogamy. What a cruel and terrible punishment, devised by a jealous god who could not bear to share His love with one, let alone many. In all the years she had been with Morrigan, her mother's eyes had never wandered very far from home; not even when she returned from her lengthy sojourns, smelling of nothing more than road dust and rain.

It was perplexing.

Unnatural.  
  
Well, Morrigan would have to grow accustomed to the thought of loving another, soon enough. Both Father's and Sylvanna's Callings were not long - perhaps two decades hence - whereas Morrigan, free of the taint, could quite conceivably extend her life for centuries (with her daughter's help, of course). It would be foolish for Morrigan to expect her friends and lovers to warrant the same treatment.

Ishantha yawned. Perhaps she ought to end her mother's ridiculous fussing and find out what Sylvanna was truly hiding - by force, if necessary. Then again, it was so illuminating, watching Mother squirming.

"I'm cold," Ishantha complained, rubbing her arms. Shifting her weight from foot to foot, she contemplated the warmth of a wolf's coat, or the downy fluff of an owl. Somehow, that only made it worse.

"Hush." Morrigan turned her back to her, head bowed. "The creature approaches."

She moved a little closer to her mother, fighting the impulse to use Morrigan as a shield. Beneath the bright moonlight, the bald little thing looked even more repulsive, the pointed ears seeming almost elvish rather than dwarven in origin. It trotted up to them on short, stumpy legs, exposed teeth gleaming yellow.

"No further, please," Morrigan said, when it stood ten yards or so from them. Even that was too close. Ishantha peeked out from behind her mother's skirts. The scent of unwashed darkspawn assailed her senses, causing her nose to wrinkle most unbecomingly.

"You are the Seeker?" Morrigan asked.

The darkspawn nodded eagerly. "The grey warden told you of me. She is not with you." It almost sounded disappointed.

"It doesn't matter," Ishantha said. "Where is he? Where is the Architect?"

The creature wrung its hands and gibbered uncontrollably. "He is close, very close, Great One. Come with me and I will show you."

Ishantha screwed up her face in a frown. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Bring him to us," Morrigan said.

The creature shook its head, whimpering. "No, Great One. You must come. You must!"

"No!" Ishantha yelled, even as Morrigan moved forwards, towards the darkspawn. The thing turned, beckoning over its shoulder for them to follow. "Mother-"

"Do as you please," Morrigan said, turning to glare at her. "This ends tonight, one way or the other."

The darkspawn bobbed its head, skull gleaming in the moonlight. The air seemed cooler without Morrigan next to her. Ishantha shivered, rubbing her arms. "Wait for me!" She darted forwards, clinging to Morrigan. Her mother sighed, and they strode ahead together, following the darkspawn into the depths of the earth.

.

.

.

**The Deep Roads**

They were headed straight for a trap, and Morrigan could not bring herself to care. Beside her, Ishantha continued to whine bitterly under her breath, clinging onto her arm with such force that it made it difficult to walk. The girl's willingness to delve below ground was surprising in itself. They had not travelled far - perhaps half a mile, though it was impossible to judge distances here, the passageway lit only by the light of Morrigan's staff and a faint glow that seemed to emanate from patches of fungus.

"I can feel them," Ishantha hissed in a loud whisper. "Hundreds of them, thousands, somewhere beneath the rock. They're so loud, Mother-"

"Are they close?" So far, they had passed no openings to the path, meaning the route back to the surface was clear and straight-forward. Still, that would not save them if something chose to descend upon them from above.

"No, they're not." Ishantha's voice shook. "But I can hear them, calling me."

The passageway opened up to a small cavern, walls encrusted with some kind of glimmering mineral deposit. The ceiling was so low that Morrigan could reach up and touch it, if she desired, and she shuddered at the thought of all that rock pressing in against her.

"He is here, Great One," the darkspawn said, shifting its weight restlessly from foot to foot. "As promised."

Morrigan spoke a word, and the light from her staff brightened. The Seeker had not been lying - there was another darkspawn in the chamber. At least a tonne of rock had fallen upon it, crushing its legs and pinning them in place, but despite its predicament, it did not seem overly perturbed. It was as ugly as any darkspawn she had ever seen, woefully misshapen, half its face distorted as if it were a doll of wax that some mischievous child had melted in a fire. One eye drooped, almost completely obscured by a protruding brow. Its jaw extended into a thin web of flesh, more aquatic than human in nature, melding across its neck and into a strange growth elongating its head.

Sylvanna had spent weeks locked up with this thing.

"Urthemiel," it said. "I regret the circumstances of our meeting, the last we spoke. You must have many questions."

Morrigan drew back with a start. Its voice was unexpectedly cultured, even hampered as it was by that misshapen mouth; nothing at all like the Seeker's gravelly tones. She glanced at her daughter: Ishantha looked pale, her small hands clenched into fists.

"Questions?" Ishantha sneered, but Morrigan recognised false bravado when she heard it. "I suppose I do have questions, darkspawn." She spat the word as though it offended her lips.

The Seeker wrung its hands. "Talk? No. Are you not to be killing the Architect, Great One? He dared disturb your slumber, tried to turn you into-"

"Shut up!"

Light filled the chamber, forcing Morrigan to shield her eyes. From between her fingers she saw the Seeker consumed by illumination, its body rising from the ground as though an invisible hand was holding it up by the neck. Garbled screams echoed around them, and then the corpse fell down with a thump.

The Architect exhaled, the noise sounding almost like a sigh of regret.

"Let us kill it also and begone," Morrigan said in a low voice.

"Not yet." Ishantha straightened, power fading from her hands. Before them, the Seeker's corpse continued to smoke, issuing a repulsive odour. "What did you do to my mother?"

The Architect tilted its head to one side, its gaze shifting from Morrigan to her daughter. "Ah," it said at last. "You refer to the elven grey warden. I cannot claim credit for her current state. I only acted as a catalyst, accelerating what would have occurred naturally in time."

"You lie," Morrigan said. It must have done something to Sylvanna, despite the warden's protestations to the contrary. It must have done something - if only Morrigan could figure out what, she could reverse it, set things to rights.

Ishantha took a step towards the Architect's prone body, looking down at him with puzzlement. "I remember you being smaller."

"That is not unexpected. Your new body is greatly changed," the Architect said. Morrigan thought she could hear a muttered 'and deficient' from under its breath.

"The Seeker said you were trying to turn me. Turn me into what?"

The Architect exhaled again with a breathy sigh. "I had hopes that the Old Gods could be freed, that there could be an end to the Blights. I wished to release you from the corruption that I knew my brethren would inflict upon you."

"But it didn't work, and we all know what happened next." Ishantha's eyes narrowed. "Why are you here now? I am no archdemon. I want nothing to do with your people."

"Sadly, the opposite is untrue." The Architect seemed genuinely sorrowful at the thought; either that, or darkspawn were capable of greater deception than Morrigan had previously given them credit for. "Even now, they clamour to find you. So few possess any means of defence against the Song, and of those, fewer still can be trusted," he said, glancing at the Seeker's body.

"You fear another Blight," Morrigan said.

The darkspawn nodded. "No matter the form taken by an Old God, they can still be corrupted."

Ishantha wrinkled her nose. "It's silly to worry about such a thing. Mother, isn't it silly?" she asked, her voice rising in pitch. "I don't want to waste this body becoming an archdemon again, and so I won't."

The darkspawn cleared its throat. "Simply wanting may not be sufficient-"

"It is!" Ishantha's eyes flashed, energy gathering around her.

"Wait," Morrigan urged. Turning to the darkspawn, she tried posing her question again. "What did you do to the grey warden?"

The Architect blinked. "I merely offered a chance for peace. Does that not align with your goals?"

"I like peace," Ishantha said. "But not if it means letting a single darkspawn live."

The Architect sighed again. Morrigan found herself wishing that her daughter would just put it out of its misery, since gleaning information from the creature was proving to be as difficult as wringing blood from a stone.

"The Seeker told me you knew the locations of the other two Old Gods. Where are they?" Ishantha asked.

The Architect tilted its head slightly to one side, dark eyes gleaming. "I must decline to answer that question, Urthemiel. I do not wish for my brethren to be harmed by your search."

Ishantha became deathly quiet, and stirrings of power raised the hairs on the nape of Morrigan's neck. She recognised the beginning of a tantrum all too well - in her experience, the best solution was to simply ignore the girl until her rage and frustration were spent. Either that, or enlist Sylvanna's aid in distracting her.

Neither option was available to her now. She snuck a glance at Ishantha. The girl was pale with anger, brow furrowed. Her sneer reminded Morrigan of nothing so much as the lines in Flemeth's face, the way her mother used to laugh as she flayed another templar to the bone.

_TELL ME_.

Ishantha's Voice shook the walls of the chamber, dislodging dirt from the ceiling which rained down, coating Morrigan's hair with dust. The Architect closed its eyes and sighed again, seemingly unfazed.

It was going to be a long, long night.

.

.

.

The Architect had not anticipated that the end would come so soon. Darkspawn did not feel pain in the same way as other organic creatures; in any case, he had experimented on his own body sufficiently to know how to ignore physical discomfort. His lack of response seemed to displease the Old God; he attempted to distract Her with some audible feedback, but he suspected that his manufactured screams were not entirely convincing.

It was shamelessly crude, this farce, and his disappointment in Urthemiel grew. He had expected greater sophistication from a being as ancient and terrible, who had led both men and darkspawn alike in Her time. There was only so much grace he could grant on account of Her weakened form and mortal attachments.

"Stop this," said Urthemiel's mother. The Old God paused, but only for a moment before directing Her attention back to the Architect.

There were limits to the amount of abuse that a body could take, even the body of a darkspawn. The end would not be long. It was lamentable. He left so much work unfinished, left so many theories and ideas that would die with him, or with his notes, left buried and forgotten. He had not even perfected his study of the darkspawn breeding cycle. Who would continue his mission once he was gone?

A voice broke through his pain-induced inattention. "'Tis clear that this is leading nowhere. What more can you hope to gain? Finish the creature and let us depart, before the night turns into day."

He opened his remaining eye, vision blurred by a red-tinged film. Urthemiel's mother grasped Her by the shoulder, with predictable results. Power arced between them, tossing the human to the ground where she landed with a groan, unmoving for long moments.

Urthemiel stepped closer towards him. "Why did you wake me? I was happier, asleep. At peace. What did you want? Did you imagine you could control me?"

He tried to shake his head, but his neck would not obey his commands. He wet his lips, grateful that She had allowed him to keep his tongue. "I have never desired control, Urthemiel - only freedom for others of my kind. Freedom from the Song of the Old Gods."

Urthemiel lowered Her hands. "You're telling the truth." She sounded almost confused, and he found himself moved by something - pity, perhaps. "Then you really did love me."

It was an odd choice of phrasing. Could a fish love water? He supposed that the Call of the Song could be termed 'love', in a limited, inadequate way.

"Yes," he said, mulling the word over. His response seemed to please Her; She rocked back on Her heels, a pensive look in Her eyes.

"I'm free now," She said. "What you tried to accomplish, all those years ago. Shouldn't you be pleased? Why do you want to kill me?"

"You may be free, Urthemiel, but my brethren are not. I know now that the Song will prove irresistible to them. You are free, but for how much longer? Your fall would doom many of my kind to suffer the same fate, and I cannot allow that to happen again. I am sorry."

She shook Her head. "You are sorry?" She repeated, Her voice mocking. From the corner of his vision, he saw Her mother beginning to stir. Urthemiel raised Her hands. "Well, I suppose that I am sorry, too."

He closed his eye again. There were three heartbeats in the chamber, and he focused his mind on Urthemiel's, the rhythm setting a reassuring pace for his own. With aching slowness, he lowered his defences and allowed himself to hear the Song, its strain almost unbearably loud after so many years of silence. It was a pleasure he had long denied himself, lest he succumb, as the Seeker had succumbed. Now, at the end, there was no harm in submitting to this private vice.

Light burned the back of his eyelid in the shape of Her form, glowing white with radiance, the image imprinting itself on his mind. Heat came as an afterthought, and the Song rose with each searing breath until the air scorched his throat, finally robbing him of the speech that had been his triumph and his curse.

Despite all he had worked for, he found himself glad - honoured - that it was Her, that Her light would scour him at last until nothing more remained save Her memories of his voice, waking Her from deepest slumber.

Perhaps that, in its own way, was a form of love.

.

.

.

Morrigan's throat ached from screaming and she wet her lips, collecting her thoughts. There had been light - so much light, and the heat of it, a furnace blazing against her skin.

_Ishantha raised her hands to cast, and Morrigan recognised the shape of her hands, the pitch of her voice - as though they were standing on a wooden pier on a summer's day, learning the touch of fire and how to bend it with mere will._

_This was no lakeside lesson - the cavern was too small, the walls too close. Fire demanded space, air. She scrambled to her feet, lunging for her daughter. "Not here! Ishantha, for pity's sake just stop and think for one minute-"_

_The blast tossed her against the far wall, and the heat blew over her in a rush, blistering her flesh. Her throat seized up, stopping her from casting to save herself from the inferno. Blind panic took over, and then everything became mercifully still - silent, pain fading as though she were waking from a dream._

The odour of burnt flesh filled the air, and she drew in a breath, tensing for the agony that never came. Morrigan shifted, and her clothes pulled against her skin, dissolving into flakes of soot as she climbed to her feet, her hands shaking.

The darkness came as a relief to her eyes, stinging with the memory of the light burned into her sockets. She stretched out a hand, snapping her fingers - once, twice, three times - until a wisp ended her blindness, filling the chamber with greenish glow.

Two mounds of soot lay at either end of the cavern, offering no distinguishing features to tell one from the other. Morrigan took a step forwards, and the remnants of her skirt caught on her heel and blew into ash, revealing her blackened but otherwise unmarked skin.

A cool touch at her wrist caused her to start, a spell springing to her lips. Her daughter clutched her with whitened knuckles, staring up with a tear-stained face, trails revealing pink cheeks beneath a fine layer of soot.

"I want-" Ishantha began, and her breath caught in her throat, choked with moisture.

Morrigan quelled the urge to tear away from that deathly grip. She reached out, fingers brushing ash from Ishantha's hair, seeking the lines of the child beneath the Old God. Tears dripped onto her palm as she cupped Ishantha's face with her hand.

"I want to go home."

.

.

.

**END OF PART II**

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.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: It's been almost a year since I started posting this thing. Good grief. For a oneshot, this really got out of hand...
> 
> I'm taking a short break before I wrap this up in the next ten chapters or so. There'll be at least one update to 'Fables' and another to 'Good For Six' (DA2 drabbles) in the meantime.
> 
> Lots of thanks &amp; hugs to oneplusme for not only tidying up my chapters, but for relenting to the inexorable pull of the fandom. See, aren't we nice people? Isn't it pretty here? Don't you want to play DA2 now?
> 
> Thanks to oneplusme, juri and sqbr for reviewing my Part III synopsis and all the helpful suggestions. The ending will totally be better for it!
> 
> Last but not least, huge thank yous to everyone reading, and especially to those who take the time to review. The story has been improved immensely by your thoughts and feedback. Thank you: Asher77, Auroraas, Avarenda, Bad Girl762, Gemini1179, IamWithinTemptation, interesting2125, J. E. Talveran, juri, KyaniteD, Metroidvania, Misdirection, Mm-Burnt-Toast-mM, mutive, Noah Sila, often indecisive, Ondjage, oneplusme, PhoenixFawkes210, RandyNanna, Snafu1000, Spikesagitta, sqbr, Technyx, thatgirlwiththe, Victorita9, wayfaringpanda, XoOMGiTSpiNsox and Zero-Vision!


	40. Part III: Absolution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - Morrigan, Ishantha - chapter 39 **

[Redcliffe]

Seeker: I spent months on this trap. Urthemiel will love me most of all!

Architect: Was that truly the extent of your plans? I find myself disappointed.

Morrigan: More talking darkspawn. How... novel.

Seeker: The Architect must die, Great One!

Ishantha: Perhaps. But you first.

Seeker: *screams*

Ishantha: Why try to kill me, when we used to get on so well together?

Architect: Another Blight would destroy scores of my kind. No matter the body you inhabit, the threat of corruption is too great.

Morrigan: Hence why I spent the last dozen paragraphs urging you to leave this place. Must you continue to ignore my advice?

Architect: Did you expect anything else? Curious.

Ishantha: Less talking, more torture, I think.

Ishantha: While we're here, let's get one thing straight: you do love me, don't you?

Architect: In a manner of speaking.

Ishantha: Ah. Good to know!

Morrigan: Incidentally, you may consider that a small, cramped cave is not the most prudent location for a-

Ishantha: *casts fireball*

Morrigan: Why do I even bother?

Ishantha: Mum, he didn't drop any epics. Not one! *grows tearful* Comfort me?

Morrigan: If I must.

* * *

.

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**PART III**

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**Redcliffe**

Roslyn knew all the secret places in Redcliffe. A year ago, she'd gotten lost amidst the passages below the keep, crying until a servant practically stumbled upon her in the gloom. After that, Father had been forced to show her everything: every door, every false dead-end and hidden cranny.

The reading room in the north wing was one of her favourites. It was neglected in the winter, lacking a fireplace, but she bore the chill with all the stoicism of a Guerrin. Tapestries covered the walls, depicting tribes of warring Alamarri, stitched pools of blood faded to murky shades of rust.

There was a little table in one corner of the room, elegantly turned legs hidden by a fringed cloth. She was almost too tall for it; the top brushed her head when she sat upright, knees tucked primly beneath her. One of the tablecloth's seams had frayed badly, permitting a sliver of light to shine through. Roslyn held her eye to it, careful not to blink too much. Even a small motion could give her away; that was what Father had said when teaching her how to sit still. Father never played such games any more.

Mother had told her it was wrong to eavesdrop, that it was unladylike. Well, Roslyn was not yet a lady, and besides, it wasn't her fault - this was her room, and she'd been here first.

Her calves began to cramp. She adjusted her posture, freezing in place when her ankle knocked against the table leg, and choked off a gasp in pained silence. She needn't have bothered; no one was listening to her.

"I know I was wrong. We were wrong."

Skirts rustled. Roslyn could make out a hem grazing the floor, robin's egg blue edged prettily with braid. The fabric shifted and flowed under candlelight as its wearer strode from one side of the room to the other.

"There will be a price to be paid, I can promise you that. But Morrigan... might survive this."

Roslyn's father sighed. His heel tapped against the leg of his chair, palms flat against his knees. "If she lives, her crimes against my arling and my family cannot go unpunished."

"That would be your right."

Of course it would be his right. It was only proper for an arl to dispense justice, but Father hadn't been doing very much of that lately - had he?

"Teagan, please. Show mercy. If she survives-"

"She will be tried and executed as a maleficar and a harbourer of demons."

Maleficarum raised demons and drank the blood of children, everyone knew that. And Ishantha's mother was rather scary. But Ishantha might be sad if Father executed her mother - or worse yet, she might be angry.

Roslyn chewed her lip. Father's voice rose in volume, filling the room.

"How can you ask me to forgive, seeing what magic has done to my family? Every day my daughter slips further away from us. Every day that demon child winds her closer around her finger. And you expect me to be merciful?"

"Teagan-"

"What would you do in my place, Warden?"

Silence descended. Roslyn shifted for a better angle, flexing her toes to ease their tingling. Her view remained obscured: she saw only the back of her father's head, imagining his face flushed with anger. Of the warden, there were only her disembodied legs and waist, and the utter stillness of her small, pale hands.

"I should have known better, than to seek mercy from a Guerrin."

"To do any less would be unjust."

"Fuck your justice!"

There was a bright flash of light and a funny taste, like biting into the centre of a lemon. Little sparks fell through the air, drifting down like dandelion clocks. One of them started burning a hole through her tablecloth. Roslyn licked her fingers and quickly pinched the fabric to quench the flame.

"Maker, control yourself!"

A cool breeze rolled through the room, though it had no windows. One by one, the remaining sparks spluttered out, followed by the candles, leaving them in darkness.

Someone clicked their fingers, and a greenish light appeared. It made Roslyn's skin look queer, like the face of a drowned man she'd found one summer, washed up on the shores of Lake Calenhad. They'd whispered about him, when they thought she wasn't listening: he'd come from the same place they'd sent her cousin. Men in armour soon arrived to look at the body, making comments about the Maker's will before they rowed away again in little boats, not even deigning to stay for the cremation.

"I - I'm sorry, Teagan. I could heal-"

"Perhaps it would be best if you refrained, all things considered."

The greenish light wavered, bobbing up and down until it made Roslyn sick to watch it. The door opened and closed, the light vanishing. Father fumbled around in the darkness, muttering something under his breath, and a candle flared and spluttered into life.

A chair creaked, and Father's nails made a clicking noise.

"You can come out now."

Roslyn hesitated. It was possible that he was bluffing, after all. She'd hardly made a noise. He sounded like he was going to use his disappointed voice, and she couldn't bear to face that. Then again, cowardice did not suit a Guerrin.

She ducked under the tablecloth, crawling forwards on hands and knees until she could stand without bumping her head. She raised her eyes to meet her father's, hands twisting together and making wrinkles in her skirt.

There was soot on Father's face, and a gash that looked bright red and sore along his cheek. Roslyn stepped closer. She drew a handkerchief and spat in it, dabbing at the soot the way she'd seen Mother do before.

Father remained silent. Some of the grime wouldn't come off, no matter how much she scrubbed. Eventually, a larger hand than her own gently plucked the cloth from her grasp, and she was forced to stop.

Father clasped her shoulder. She was almost too old for hugs - her seventh nameday would be held in the summer - but he just looked so sad. She crawled into his lap, waiting, breath held, for the rebuke that never came.

She reached her arms around him, leaning against his padded doublet, the stubble along his neck unbearably scratchy. Wetness touched her cheek, and she stuck out her tongue, tasting salt. Roslyn buried her face into her father's shoulder, and hugged him a little closer.

.

.

.

Little girls, Ishantha found, were very boring.

They also cried a lot. Ellie cried almost on the hour, without intervention - she was too cold, or too hot, or hungry, or she missed her papa, or her stuffed puppy, or her Nan or the cook or her rooms at Denerim. Roslyn wasn't even that much better, feigning illness or clinging to her father in a bewildering show of disloyalty.

Ishantha was so bored.

Even Mama had little time for her. Well, Ishantha didn't need anyone to have fun. Although sometimes it helped.

Ishantha prodded the body with a stick, despite the corpse being obviously dead. Perhaps if she'd been slightly more careful, he would have survived a little longer. Mama knew a spell that she could learn, if she cared to. _Resurrection_. Something to consider for the next occasion...

She turned to the man standing beside her. "If you ever lose either of my mothers to darkspawn again, that will be you on the ground. Understood?"

Ser Tomas nodded stiffly, his face white. She dismissed him with a wave, and he left to oversee the cremation.

All in all, it had been quite a productive afternoon.

She wandered back into the castle to clean the blood from her hands, and found Sylvanna in the solar, laying out maps. There was Redcliffe, marked by a little red hill, and the Imperial Highway, and the puddle of Lake Calenhad.

"What're you doing?"

Sylvanna placed a set of weights delicately at the corners of the map, smoothing out the edges of the vellum. "Planning our next route. Didn't you say you wanted to visit Denerim?"

Ishantha frowned. "No. Father will come to me."

Sylvanna turned to look at her, disapproving gaze sweeping over Ishantha's bloodied hands and skirt. "Sometimes plans don't work out the way we intend them to."

"Mine will." Of course, her plans hadn't always worked that smoothly in the past. But there was really no reason why this one would fail. Once Father knew she held his youngest daughter, he would either have to raise an army or come himself, and how could he risk his blood being injured in another war? All Morrigan's teachings and memories had painted him as the sentimental type. He would come.

Sylvanna returned to her maps, placing little markers on the vellum. The stones shone prettily, like uncut gems.

"Why don't we play 'Hunt the Andrastians'?" Ishantha asked.

"Maybe tomorrow. Why don't you practise your shapeshifting?"

Ishantha heaved a great sigh. "I can't! Mother won't teach me the form I really want to know." Secretly, she suspected that Morrigan had no idea how to turn into a dragon, otherwise she would have done so before. It was just too bad; Ishantha would have to find one for herself, and dragons always lurked in annoyingly hard-to-reach places.

Sylvanna eyed her. "That's a shame."

It was a terrible shame, but she felt a little better, knowing that someone sympathised with her plight. "I guess I'll practise something else," Ishantha conceded.

"Mm."

"Why don't you tell me a story?" Ishantha asked, grasping at straws. She seated herself at the window, leaving red fingerprints on the cushions.

Sylvanna's gaze drifted over the stains. Ishantha settled her hands in her lap and tried to look innocent.

"What kind of story?"

Ishantha tucked her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. "Tell me about my father."

Sylvanna hesitated, her shoulders tensing. "What would you like to know?"

"Tell me what he said to you, the night before the siege."

There was a brief pause before Sylvanna spoke. "He said he never wanted to see me again. That we weren't friends." She watched Ishantha, jaw clenched, as if daring her to challenge the truth of the matter.

So much for Ishantha's plans to unite all of her parents. Still, if she could get Morrigan to love her father, surely she could do anything. "He was probably just having a bad day."

"Alistair is-" Sylvanna glanced away, her fingers tightening on the edge of the table. "Alistair is a good man. He didn't deserve what you've done to him."

Ishantha raised a brow. "What I've done?" she asked, in her best imitation of Morrigan's icy tones.

"You took his child."

"He left her for the taking!"

Sylvanna stepped towards her. "You stole a toddler away from her home and family! You're no better than a - than a templar."

That was a most grievous insult, payable in blood. "How dare you!"

Sylvanna's hand clamped down on her shoulder, nails digging painfully into her skin. "Get out of my room," she hissed, dragging Ishantha to her feet.

Her shoulder hurt, and worst of all, her blouse was probably being wrinkled. The room wasn't even Sylvanna's, in any case. "Eleanor's safer here," Ishantha insisted, her tone wheedling. Wait. Why was she even bothering to be nice?

Sylvanna shoved her out of the room. "You can keep telling yourself that, if it makes you feel better. It changes nothing."

"But it's true!" Ishantha turned around, just as the door slammed shut in her face. She blinked in shock, too stunned for a moment even to be angry. "Mama?" she asked uncertainly, putting her ear to the door.

The resulting silence was overwhelming. She straightened, smoothing down her dress. "There's no need to be rude!" she said through the door, for want of something better.

No answer. She walked away, half-expecting a tearful apology, but in the end, only silence dogged her steps.

.

.

.

Morrigan slept lightly at the best of times - instincts hard-won through years of living with Flemeth - so when Sylvanna slid into bed, she awakened in an instant. She wondered if she remained dreaming, her mind calling from memory the sight of scarred skin and curved lines. For days they had done nothing but circle around each other, scarcely speaking. Inevitably, Morrigan would raise her voice, and there would be shouting - something, anything to stave off the silence - but, anger spent, there remained nothing more between them.

They had not shared the same room for more than five minutes at a time, which meant the creature before her had to be a lie. She risked touching it, fine hair gliding between her fingertips. Sylvanna shifted but the illusion did not fade.

Morrigan grew bolder, daring the dream to play false, the vision to end and leave her with whichever demon was plaguing her thoughts. She ran her hands over fine wool robes, the flesh beneath so cold that it stripped the warmth from her palms.

"You're still dressed," she accused.

The thing wearing Sylvanna's face turned to her, eyes reddened and puffy, mouth a bloody stain against the pallor of her skin. "I'm cold."

The fire had died down some time ago, but a gesture and a word revived the embers, bringing heat back to the room. Sylvanna shivered and burrowed further into the blankets, frigid toes grazing Morrigan's own as she searched for warmth.

The chill of Sylvanna's flesh against her skin was unnerving, almost akin to touching a cadaver. Morrigan shuddered at the thought, and inched away a little further.

Sylvanna watched her and bit her lip. "I tried, you know. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen."

"Who? Tell him what?"

Sylvanna declined to answer. Instead, she began to undress, fingers fumbling with laces. Her pace remained so slow and tedious that Morrigan at last relented from sheer frustration and assisted.

In shift and smalls, Sylvanna pressed closer to her. Despite the fire's warmth, she remained as cold as ever, Morrigan's skin crawling with revulsion at the slightest contact.

If she were a demon, she had to be the most incompetent demon that Morrigan had ever faced.

"I want you to know that I forgive you," Sylvanna whispered.

Morrigan froze for a moment. The complexity of her transgressions rushed through her mind, each one worse than the next. "Whatever for?"

"For burning my robes."

She almost laughed. When they had rescued Sylvanna from the Architect, she had been wearing a grimy, blood-encrusted dress almost falling from her emaciated frame. Morrigan had gleefully burnt the rags to a crisp. "I earned your forgiveness?" she asked, unable to keep the mockery from her voice.

"No. But I'm giving it to you anyway."

Morrigan narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to speak. She found her lips covered by an icy hand and then by lips scarcely warmer, the contact so brief it took the memory of that chill to remind her that it had even occurred at all.

Sylvanna pulled back, observing her. "I suggest you take it. While you still can."

Anger flushed Morrigan's cheeks, restoring the warmth to her face. "Your words mean nothing to me," she hissed, even as Sylvanna left the bed, an indent remaining in the sheets. Sylvanna refused to turn around as she walked away, inflaming Morrigan's ire even further. "Precisely nothing - do you hear me?"

The door opened and closed, very quietly, the fire barely flickering. Morrigan wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

.

.

.

Sylvanna was no blood mage, and the blood the Architect had given her was not fresh.

She shook the vial, watching the liquid coating the sides of the glass. _Anders_, the Architect had named him, the donor of the blood... willing or not. Anders was a common enough name in some parts. Could it be...?

It scarcely mattered. She was not meeting him for a reunion. In fact, his identity was irrelevant. It would be better if he was unknown to her - better, since she was marking him for an early death.

Find a grey warden. Initiate metamorphosis. Force the grey warden to...

_To do what she had failed to do_.

To do his duty.

It all seemed simple enough in her head, save that Ishantha had never been the cooperative sort, and there was only one grey warden that the Old God wanted to find: her father. If it came to that, Sylvanna would also sacrifice him without a second thought, his kingdom and his daughter be damned.

She had seen Eleanor Theirin only once, and then forced herself to stay away from the child. She looked too much like her father.

The blood hummed to her as she rolled the vial between her fingertips. She scratched at the dirt beneath her nail. The skin below was turning black. She needed to brew her potion again; wilful denial would only get her so far with Morrigan, and as for Ishantha-

Honestly, she had no idea what was going on in that creature's mind, and she had no desire to find out.

Warden.

Metamorphosis.

Duty.

The words repeated themselves like a mantra, offering little comfort as she bade the blood speak to her. It danced within the confines of the vial, turning almost black as she surrounded it with magic.

Nothing.

She almost hurled it at the wall, settling instead for throwing a book, its spine cracking as it fell to the floor. Time. She had no time.

Breathing in slowly, and exhaling even more slowly, she resumed her seat, placing the vial before her. She closed her eyes, taking comfort from the darkness behind her lids, and then stared at the offending little vessel with fresh determination.

It was only blood, she reminded herself.

Only blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks to Asher77, Avarenda, Dinlek, gamesgunsgirls, interesting2125, mutive, often indecisive, ScOut4It, Spikesagitta, thatgirlwiththe, wayfaringpanda and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait. I'm still resolved to finish this, but updates might be sporadic. Mostly because I'm kind of flailing around going 'ohgodwhy?WHY?' which isn't particularly productive.
> 
> One thing that's been really bothering me is writing this post-DA2. I've thought about changing the plot, which was planned prior to the game's release, but at this stage it's pretty much an immutable thing. Oh well... just ignore the inevitable dissonance, please.


	41. Ashes to Ashes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> My love for Meredith knows no bounds so it's sometimes hard to read other people's versions of her, but overall I adored Heath Wingwhit's recently completed 'The Tower', a tragedy in six parts. Deliciously doomed Meredith/Bethany, long-term relationship, mage/templar angst.
> 
> YOU SHOULD READ IT.
> 
> RIGHT NOW.
> 
> (No srsly I meant right now. Support Meredith femslash! Someone has to.)

** Recap - Alistair, Avernus, Anders - chapter 37 **

[Soldier's Peak]

Avernus: To create the wards you need, one of you must die.

Anders: This situation calls for a super-magical-healing cat. Has anyone seen my cat?

Guillaume: *looks guilty* As the only OC present, it falls to me to volunteer for Avernus' studies-

Alistair: Good! We'll resurrect you if you die. Or at least make the attempt. Or think about making the attempt, in any case.

Anders: ...

Levi: It's true, Sire. Your daughter is rumoured to be dea-

Alistair: Don't say it!

Levi: ...Living-challenged?

Alistair: Whatever. Ooh, mage-killers! Lucky I'm not a mage. Hang on a minute...

Anders: *wounded* What took you so long?

Alistair: I was trying to find hair gel circa 9:41 Dragon. You?

Anders: I've always been a ponytail man, myself.

Alistair: What's that noise?

Anders: Demons... the Veil... you need to fix...

Alistair: *finally finds a use for his templar talents*

Anders: And now for our regularly scheduled hour of hurt/comfort.

Alistair: My favourite!

[Later]

Avernus: Your wards should be ready soon. Your friend was most cooperative.

Alistair: Dead?

Avernus: Maybe. Come back tomorrow.

Alistair: What about Anders?

Avernus: What am I, an injury kit dispenser?

Alistair: *gets poultices. Applies poultices.*

Anders: This seems familiar. You, the clumsy but kind-hearted knight, I, the roguishly handsome apostate with the broken ribs-

Alistair: Maker's breath, just sleep already!

* * *

**Soldier's Peak**

The stock-take was going well, though one suit of plate and three hauberks remained unaccounted for. Levi frowned, peering at his list. He had already checked all the downstairs storerooms, the armoury and the basement. It wasn't as if the suit could just up and walk away. He shrugged and crossed the landing, opening a far door.

A hissing ball of orange and cream launched itself at his face, needle-pricks sinking into his shoulder as it used his body as a landing point. Levi clawed at the beast, struggling to find purchase in its soft fur, but the creature sprang off soon after it drew blood, racing down the corridor on silent feet.

"Sodding cat!" he yelled, though it was long gone. He shook the pain from his shoulder, raising a torch to peer into the stockroom.

Well, there was his missing plate. It seemed like something had been using the greaves as a privy. Levi grimaced in revulsion, trying to hold his breath, and made a note on his list. There was still plenty of daylight, enough time to get the suit scrubbed up and sent down to the armoury. A job best saved for his least-favourite nephew, he thought.

Much later, he remembered that the king had long been missing a cat...

.

.

.

The wards surrounding Guillaume had dissipated with the sunrise, and a much sleep-deprived Alistair had wandered in, almost tripping over the stacks of old books crowding Avernus' chambers. Laid out, Guillaume had appeared deathly pale, but his breath still clouded the blade of a dagger, his chest rising with each inhalation.

"Not for much longer," Avernus had warned.

No further attacks had been forthcoming since the last set of assassins, thank the Maker, but they had wasted enough time at the keep already. Avernus was almost finished with the protective artifacts he had promised them, so once Guillaume had recovered, they would be ready to move on.

Alistair had already tried shoving all manner of healing potions down Guillaume's throat, to no avail. His hands remained dark and sticky with elfroot juice, the liquid pulling at his skin as it dried. There had to be something else he could do. He owned it to the man to at least try, studiously ignoring the voice saying he would have left long ago, if it hadn't been for Avernus' constant delays.

"Please," Alistair begged, palms pressed together. The stone floor was beginning to play havoc with his knees, and he shifted a little to ease the tension.

Pounce opened an eye just to glare at him, a bushy tail swishing ominously from side to side. The cat nudged Anders' chin happily with its face, before settling down to sleep, curled atop Anders' chest. Honestly, it was a wonder it didn't smother him.

Anders dozed, recovering from his myriad injuries. Awake, Alistair could never get him to shut up - and of course now when he needed him to say something useful, the mage remained silent.

"Fine." Alistair threw his hands up in a gesture of resignation, climbing to his feet. "You win. Stay with him, for all I care. If Guillaume dies, it's on your head."

If anything, the cat looked even more smug.

"I mean it. Andraste's blood, it's anyone's guess why he isn't dead already." He adopted a wheedling tone. "You could help him. I saw what you did to Anders, you probably saved his life. I guess Anders could help Guillaume, if he gets up in time-"

Alistair reached down to shake Anders awake, and almost lost his fingers as Pounce snapped at him. Blood ran down the back of his hand.

"Ow!" He cradled his wrist, glaring at Pounce. "Fine. Be that way!"

The cat tucked its head on its paws. A few seconds later, it began purring, the sound growing louder as Alistair stomped out of the room.

.

.

.

Alistair crossed into the main part of the keep, hand repeatedly straying to the hilt of his sword for reassurance. The Drydens had been aghast at the number of corpses in their quarters, quick to promise that the event would not be repeated. He had his doubts. Zevran had regaled him with enough stories to make him wary; even a single assassin could be deadly. Alistair longed for a time when he could eat without fear of poison, or walk down a corridor without jumping at every shadow.

Levi had told him that some grey warden possessions remained in the keep, untouched since the Blight. Alistair didn't expect much - ten lean years had passed, after all. Odd that the successive warden commanders of Amaranthine had never thought to build ties with the traders at Soldier's Peak. Oghren, at the very least, should have remembered that there was a cache here.

The Drydens had moved the wardens' belongings to the back of a cellar. Alistair swatted away cobwebs as he went, a torch held high, the light flickering against the walls. There were small jars stacked on shelves, and he picked one up, wiping the dust away with a finger. He gave it a shake, and a few red grains skittered around the bottom. The rest of them were similarly empty. It was too bad; Anders was always complaining about their lack of lyrium.

Further in, there were old pieces of armour, many too large or too small to fit an average human. Alistair brushed past a breastplate that might have suited Sten, kicking over a helm that rattled across the floor.

Shoved in a corner was a chest, worn and unassuming. Alistair rattled the lid, but it remained shut. Where was a locksmith when he needed one? He shrugged and set the torch in a sconce, crouching down to examine the keyhole. Brown rust pitted the surface, flaking off when he rubbed at it with his thumbnail. He straightened, taking a step back, and grabbed an axe propped against a wall. On the first blow, the wood began to splinter. On the fifth, the lid cracked and creaked open at a touch. Alistair put the axe aside, wiping sweaty hands on his breeches.

Inside, the chest was filled with junk. A handful of rings, barely worth the metal they were forged from, empty vials, old documents. He lifted up a sheaf of papers, peering at the writing. Letters from Ostagar. It was a good thing Anora had never seen them. He put them aside, reaching down until his fingers touched the bottom of the chest.

Near the end of the Blight, Wynne had made a number of concentrated poultices, so potent that they could almost bring a person back from the brink of death. They had been preserved using magic; if the enchantments still held, perhaps they could aid Guillaume.

Alistair felt for a catch, brushing over the empty carapaces of dead bugs. Eventually, something yielded with a click, and he lifted out the false bottom of the chest.

More empty vials. He dug through them, searching for a glimpse of red, the tell-tale scent of elfroot, anything...

His fingers closed around a soft pouch, and he held it up to the light. Taking a closer look, he suddenly froze. The material had faded, the drawstring frayed and rotted, but-

_"We have to hurry back to Redcliffe," Alistair insisted, shifting uneasily from foot to foot._ _Andraste's carven face watched him from above, her stone eyes cold and empty._

_Sylvanna rose, beaming from ear to ear, a fat pouch dangling from her fingers. "All done."_

_"Great. Let's get out of this place," he said, gesturing in the vague direction of the frozen mountaintop. "It's giving me the creeps."_

Alistair had assumed they had used the last of the ashes curing Arl Eamon. In the years after the Blight, the few pilgrims questing for the urn had never been seen again. Something to do with that dragon cult living on the mountainside, he suspected, but there had never been the time to investigate for himself.

Gently loosening the drawstring, Alistair took a peek inside. The pouch was still half full.

Why hadn't Sylvanna told him? He could have used it - he could have saved Anora if he had known. If Sylvanna had thought to trust him. Why hadn't she trusted him?

If Anora had lived, Eamon and Elissa would never have died. Anora would have dealt with the situation, Zevran would never have entered the picture, and Elissa would never have been on that ship to Antiva. Then again, if they had never found the ashes in the first place, Eamon would never have awoken from his death bed. They would probably have lost the Landsmeet and Loghain would have executed all of them, dooming Ferelden to an eternal Blight. Funny how things worked out.

It was such a small object to contain so much hope, so many dashed dreams and faded what-ifs. He almost expected it to feel different. To sparkle in the flickering torchlight, or to chime with a tinkle of bells when touched. The Maker clearly had no sense of the dramatic, but what could he expect from a being who had supposedly abandoned His creations? (What kind of Father did that?)

Very carefully, Alistair bundled the pouch up in a handkerchief, holding the precious bundle as if it were raw lyrium. It was too late for Anora, for Elissa and the rest, but he could still make a difference in the here and now. He twisted the edges of the handkerchief into a peak, and began the long walk back to Avernus' tower.

.

.

.

Anders was still sleeping when Alistair returned, but Avernus had emerged from his study, looking on with interest.

"A most fascinating substance," Avernus said, a hungry expression on his face. "Are you certain that a small pinch could not be spared?"

"Yes!" Alistair snapped. He had mixed the ashes with a little water as he had seen Wynne do before, smearing the paste over Guillaume's teeth and tongue. Eamon's recovery had been near-instantaneous - miraculous, really - and so he waited with impatience, foot tapping out a steady beat. Behind him, Avernus quietly pocketed the mortar he had used to mix the paste.

Guillaume coughed, eyes fluttering open, then promptly rolled over and threw up.

"Thank the Maker!" Alistair said. Finally, something had gone right.

Guillaume wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "How... how long have I been unconscious?" he asked weakly, easing himself into a sitting position.

"Too long. How are you feeling? Can you walk?"

Guillaume tentatively swung his legs over the side of the table, toeing the floor. "I think so. Did it work? Do you have something for us?" he asked, this last question directed to Avernus.

"Yes, although I did not expect you to live. Fortunately, I had sufficient blood to make a spare ward," Avernus said, his tone laced with disapproval. He passed Alistair a small, flat disc, deep red in colour, mounted crudely on a pin. Avernus had already attached one to the collar of his own robes.

"Then they work?" Alistair asked, pinning his charm to his surcoat when he saw Guillaume doing the same. The surface of the button felt smooth and slightly warm to the touch. "The Old God won't be able to sense us?"

Avernus shrugged. "Most likely. I make no promises, understand, but I believe they will have the desired effect."

"And the poison we discussed?" Guillaume asked.

"What poison?" Anders entered the room, Pounce winding around his legs. At the sight of Guillaume, Pounce arced its back and hissed.

Avernus handed another pin to Anders before turning back to Guillaume. "Something suitable for coating blades. Yes, it should be coming along nicely."

"Will it be ready soon?" Alistair asked, dreading yet another delay.

Avernus fixed him with rheumy eyes. "Soon," he said, his face impossible to read. He turned to Guillaume. "My congratulations once more on surviving. Most unusual," he mused, before leaving the room.

"So you're alive." Anders picked up Pounce, the cat still glaring daggers at Guillaume. "How... fortunate."

"Yes. It is," Alistair said, stepping between the two of them in an attempt to forestall an argument. Anders sounded venomous, and Guillaume's posture was looking decidedly defensive. Whatever their disagreement, they didn't have time for it. "Once Avernus is finished with this last poison, we can take it and go. According to him, the Old God moved back from South Reach to Redcliffe. If we're lucky, we can catch Her there before She moves again."

"With what army?" Anders asked. "You weren't there at Redcliffe. It was a massacre."

"We should go to Weisshaupt," Guillaume said. "The First Warden must learn of this in person. There are other mages there who could reproduce Avernus' work, create more wards, weapons capable of harming the Old God-"

"No!" Alistair slammed his palms down on the table before him. "We are not going to Weisshaupt, or Orlais, or anywhere that leads us away from Her. She has my daughter, or did everyone conveniently forget that during their near-death experiences?"

Guillaume met his gaze without blinking an eye. "I am the senior warden here," he began. "We cannot hope to defeat her on our own. We require allies, reinforcements-"

"I am the king, and you are in my country, ser. We don't have time. My daughter doesn't have time, Maker only knows what they're doing to her!"

"You may be king," Guillaume said, leaving the 'for now' dangling unspoken - Alistair could only imagine what was happening in Denerim: moves to have him and Eleanor declared dead, the end of the Calenhad line, a landsmeet to determine the next reigning monarch - "but grey wardens are above political lines. This is still a warden affair, Your Majesty."

Alistair's hands clenched into fists. "I saved your life," he said, gaze boring into Guillaume's. "Me. Not that cat, not Anders, not Avernus. If I wasn't here, you would still be lying on that butcher's table, cold as Andraste's tits on a winter's morning."

Guillaume's eye flickered at the blasphemy, but he did not otherwise react.

Alistair drew back, gaze shifting between the two other wardens. "Please," he said, voice lowered. "Please understand. I need to find my daughter. The longer she stays with the Old God, the more I fear I might lose her forever."

There were other ways to lose a child than through death. Possession. Corruption. Alistair had no idea what the Old God was truly capable of, but he was determined that his daughter would never find out.

"I suppose you have a plan?" Anders asked, once the silence had dragged on for longer than Alistair would have preferred.

"Yes," he replied, only partially lying. "A tactically sensible, logical plan that probably won't end with all of us getting killed."

"Oh good," Anders said dryly. "My favourite kind."

Guillaume raised a brow. "As sensible as your plan to come to Vigil's Keep?"

Alistair affected a hurt tone. "It all worked out, didn't it?"

Pounce opened its eyes and glared at him.

"I will write to Weisshaupt before we leave," Guillaume said with resignation. "The mages will need to pass on all they have learnt. If we fall, the first warden must know how to defeat this being."

And Orlais as well, Alistair thought cynically. After Ferelden burns, they'll be next in line. "A good idea," he said, trying not to think too hard about what would happen should they fail.

Anders rose to his feet. "We're in agreement? How novel. I should mark this day in the almanac."

Guillaume also rose. He looked more or less steady on his feet, though Alistair thought he could detect a slight tremor in his knees. "Sire. Mage," Guillaume said, nodding to Anders before leaving, presumably to write those letters. Pounce took a swipe at him from Anders' arms as he walked out, which Guillaume neatly avoided.

Once he was gone, Anders released Pounce. The cat promptly jumped onto the windowsill and began grooming its face. "I hope you know what you're doing," Anders said.

Alistair forced a grin to his lips. "Do I ever know what I'm doing?"

Anders shook his head and groaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Many thanks to Asher77, Auroraas, interesting2125, miralinda, mutive, often indecisive, Spikesagitta and Zero-Vision for the reviews.


	42. The Leonine Contract

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice. And thank you to Snafu1000 for the comment that ended up shaping much of this chapter.
> 
> It's been delightful seeing the number of f!Hawke/Isabela stories cropping up, but nothing moved me quite so much as will-o-whisper's drabble [Commit Their Body to the Deep.](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7024750/1/Commit-Their-Body-to-the-Deep) Hawke dies. Isabela grieves.

** Recap - Ishantha, Morrigan, Sylvanna, Pounce - chapters 40, 41 **

[Redcliffe]

Sylvanna: *death, foreshadowing, blah*

Teagan: Did you want something from me?

Sylvanna: Just don't kill Morrigan. Pretty please? With sugar on top?

Teagan: Yeah... no.

Sylvanna: OMG STFU! DIAF!

[Later]

Ishantha: Ooh, maps. Can I play at maps?

Sylvanna: No.

Ishantha: Burn the Unbeliever? Executions at Noon? Hide and Seek?

Sylvanna: No.

Ishantha: Story?

Sylvanna: Once upon a time, a very annoying little girl was sent to her room without any supper. The end.

Ishantha: That story sucked.

Sylvanna: You are a monster. Who else would kidnap small children from their parents? Wait, I know - the Chantry.

Ishantha: Mum! Other mum's calling me names!

Morrigan: What do you want?

Sylvanna: To make you feel guilty, I suppose.

Morrigan: I... regret nothing.

Sylvanna: You just keep telling yourself that.

[meanwhile, at Soldier's Peak]

Avernus: The anti-OGB wards are ready. There's even one for you, my sacrificial lamb.

Guillaume: ...

Alistair: OMG guys, matching pins! Are we best buddies now or what?

Pounce: *glares*

Anders: Apparently not.

* * *

**Redcliffe**

In the small hours of the morning, Ishantha woke her mother by bursting into the room and climbing onto her bed.

"He's gone," Ishantha announced, ignoring the glare directed her way. "He's gone,Mother! How could he do this to me? How dare he!"

"Who, pray?"

"Who?" Ishantha stared at her incredulously. "Father, of course!" It was impossible to describe the feeling of disconnection, of loss. One moment, she could sense both Alistair and his grey warden companions, place them in her mind's eye, the dark rhythm of the taint betraying their location, and in the next - nothing. As if the ground had swallowed them up. As if they had learnt to evade her.

"We have to do something!"

Morrigan groaned and swept the hair from her face. "Truly? Are you certain that he has not simply perished?" Her tone betrayed a hopeful note.

Ishantha rolled her eyes. "Of course! He can't be dead." She hesitated for a moment. If he were dead, why would the other wardens around him have vanished at the same time? It had to be a trick. "Mother, you have to help me!"

"Ask Sylvanna. Alistair's fate concerns me not."

That would not do, not at all. What about all her plans? What about the fate of their family? Why wasn't Mother in the slightest bit troubled?

"Fine," Ishantha sulked, leaping off the bed. "If you won't help me, I'll find someone else who will!"

Morrigan's response was lost as Ishantha slammed the door behind her, marching towards the sanctuary of her own quarters. As always, if she wanted this done properly, she would have to do it herself.

She closed the door to her room, paused, considered a moment, then rested her palm against the wood, light spreading beneath her fingertips. When the glow had reached every corner, the light faded, sinking into the door. She gave the ward an experimental poke before turning away. Now no one would disturb her. Mother hated it when she locked her door this way; even with her magic, Morrigan would need more than an hour to unravel the wards.

Ishantha's bed was still warm where she had lain in it, and she burrowed under the covers, pulling the sheets up over her head. She closed her eyes and reached out with her senses, her perception encompassing the whole of the castle. Her mother had not moved, but neither was she asleep. Sylvanna was also awake, the ebb of her taint a whisper floating around the approximate location of the solar. The warden always seemed to be alone these days. It wasn't natural. Left to their own devices, too much free time made both her mothers unpredictable - and therefore dangerous.

First things first. Ishantha breathed deeply, settling into the warmth of her bed. It was easy enough to separate her consciousness from her body, easier still to send her mind back to where it had dwelt for centuries, returning to the Fade as if she had never left.

.

.

.

**The Fade**

It had to be the most pathetic excuse for a demon that Ishantha had ever seen. She barely reached the height of its paws, its rumbling breath blowing warm far above her head. A narrow tail hugged close to its body, its skull cradled tight so that the overall impression was that of a furry ginger snail. Pricked ears gave the lie to its pretence of sleep, swivelling in her direction as she approached.

"You," Ishantha said, voice dripping scorn.

Green eyes slowly opened, following by a great yawning mouth, teeth gleaming sharp and white in the gloom. "Little dragon," the demon purred, its consonants deep and throaty. "How kind of you to visit."

"You know where my father is."

The demon sighed, the scent of rotting meat washing over Ishantha as she stood in its wake. "Do I?" It stood, back curving in a perfect feline arch as it stretched. Its paws extended to either side of Ishantha, claws emerging and scoring thin lines into the ground.

"My father and that stupid human you fancy. Anders." Ishantha sneered, hands placed firmly on hips. "He should've been mine too. I had him. For a moment." At the start of the siege, she had felt them - the grey wardens heeding her Song, bending their wills to her own. The demon's human had been one of them, but somehow that connection had been broken, lost in the midst of all the other voices. When her father's location had vanished, so too had Anders'.

The demon settled its paws beneath its head, whiskers twitching. Its eyes narrowed to slits. "Careless of you to misplace him."

"He's just a mage. If I really wanted him, he could be mine."

A rumbling noise sounded from the back of the demon's throat. It raised one paw, tips of its claws peeking out, and began to clean itself. "And what would you do with him, pray?" It swiped its paw over its head, a pink tongue lathing its fur. "He is, as you say, only a mage."

A mage and a grey warden. Ishantha found herself growing eternally sick of mages and grey wardens. "I care nothing for him." It was true. Warden or not, his life was inconsequential. The demon ceased pretending to bathe itself, watching her with its tail twitching. She strode towards it, then stopped at its feet, head tilted back to meet its gaze.

"He means nothing to me, but I will kill him. If you do not help me, I will take his fingers and feed them to my wolves, one by one. I will pluck out his eyes and strip the marrow from his bones. When his screaming offends me, I will tear out his tongue, and fill his throat with acid. And when he is like to die, I will let you save him, touch his broken body, feel his pain and knit his flesh whole. And then we will start again."

She could see her entire body reflected in the demon's eyes, no longer half-closed. Its fur was raised, making it seem even larger than it truly was. "If you find him."

"Not if. When." No one could hide from her forever. Anders would need to buy food, supplies, find shelter. Each time he passed one of hers in the street, broke bread with a follower, each time someone heard him speak - she would know.

"You expect me to lead you to him?"

"Not him!" Her jaw clenched, eyes flashing. "I don't want him. Only my father. If you lead me to Father, I've leave him alone. Both of you. Forever."

The demon's ears flicked. They looked so soft and warm, as though they would make lovely gloves. "Forever? And how am I to trust you, little dragon?"

She held out her hand, palm raised. "Show me where Father is, and I pledge on my blood and the blood of my kin, I will not harm you, nor the Warden Anders, nor his descendants."

The demon tilted its head to the side, her reflection vanishing as it blinked, slowly. "Very well." It extended its claws, slashing across her palm until blood dripped, red and bright onto the dull matter of the Fade.

Ishantha pressed her bloodied hand onto the demon's upturned paw. It felt soft yet strangely firm beneath her palm.

The demon turned away, tail raised as its feet made perfect rounded prints, each one as long as her arm. "Come along," it growled, without turning to look at her.

Ishantha grinned, picked up her skirts, and followed.

.

.

.

**Redcliffe**

"Sylvanna."

No response. Morrigan wet her lips and tried again. "Sylvanna-"

"Ishantha's gone. I know."

The winter wind eclipsed all memory of warmth, bringing with it snow from the tops of the Frostback Mountains. Morrigan brushed a few flakes from her nose, wrapping her arms around herself. "You knew?" she drawled, finding refuge in her anger. "Did you not think to tell me?"

Sylvanna turned. Behind her, the arling glistened bright white, frost slicking the parapets where they stood. "I didn't notice until just then." The hood was turned back on her cloak, her ears wrapped close to her head in a woollen scarf. "She must have left recently."

"Without us?"

Sylvanna watched her through lashes rimmed with frost. "Perhaps she wanted to meet her father on her own terms."

"What she wants is immaterial!" Morrigan studied Sylvanna's face, searching for signs of deceit. Her fingers latched onto Sylvanna's shoulders, the cloak bunching in her grasp. "You are hiding something from me," she hissed. "You knew this would occur."

"No." Sylvanna's voice cut through her fear and rage, her tone perfectly level. "But I know where she's gone."

Morrigan took a step back, releasing her hold. Sylvanna straightened the cloak around her shoulders, brushing out the creases. "Tell me," Morrigan demanded.

Sylvanna lowered her eyes, reaching around the back of her neck. She drew a chain from beneath her robes, passing it to Morrigan's upturned hand. The chain held a small vial, three quarters full with dark liquid.

"Is this Alistair's blood?"

Sylvanna shook her head. "It's from a grey warden called Anders. He was travelling with the king for some time, so they may still be close."

Templars collected phylacteries. Templars and blood mages and- "Where did you find this?"

Sylvanna tugged her cloak a little closer around herself, burying her hands beneath the heavy cloth. "In the Architect's library. The darkspawn met Anders some years ago, held him captive. I thought... I thought perhaps if I could reach him, send a message using his blood-"

Morrigan's hand clenched around the vial, its edges biting into her palm. Such a thing was not simple to accomplish, and Sylvanna was no blood mage. No wonder she had failed. "You thought he would assist you?" She sneered. "This grey warden and the king?"

"I had no choice!" Sylvanna took a steadying breath. "You have no idea what it was like, down below - what they did - what they intended to do. Did you expect me to wait for your rescue, like a princess in a tower?"

Morrigan had her guesses about the darkspawn's intentions. Had she been placed in a similar situation, she might have reached for any hope, however small. That, or she would have contrived to take her own life. Death was far more preferable to... to servitude. "The darkspawn are dead, and you are no longer captive. Why keep the blood?"

"I overheard them talking about Alistair. The darkspawn were keeping an eye on the king, Anders, and another grey warden. I knew Ishantha would want to meet with him, sooner or later."

"And yet you kept this from her."

Sylvanna raised a brow. "Are you surprised? After what she did with Eleanor?"

Morrigan winced. Alistair's daughter had been treated with the utmost respect, as far as she could tell, but who knew where Ishantha's future plans would lead? Eleanor meant nothing, she tried to tell herself. Children were indoctrinated with all kinds of nonsense on a daily basis - the Chantry, their parents or an Old God - the source was of little consequence. The weak would always be as chattel to their betters; the only difference lay in who held the reins.

"What other secrets have you been keeping? The darkspawn wanted to kill Ishantha." Morrigan remembered the Architect's dry, cultured words, calmly discussing its plans for her daughter's demise. "Do you intend to do their bidding?"

"No!" Sylvanna's face flushed, her jaw tightening. "No. That was the Architect's goal, but it need not happen. The Seeker told me of another way."

"Another way? Another way to kill our daughter?" Morrigan asked, long past caring to lower her voice.

Sylvanna did not respond immediately. As Morrigan waited, snow began to fall. The flakes tingled on her skin, melting and sliding down her cheeks like cold tears. They settled on Sylvanna's hair, glistening like gems.

"Tell me, Morrigan. What were you hoping for when you conceived her? What did you want her to be?"

Morrigan opened her mouth to respond, then closed it abruptly. A tool to use against Flemeth. An opportunity to see a new power rise in the world. Something that would be truly hers, and hers alone. "We spoke of this years ago," Morrigan snapped. "Why does it matter?"

"Did you want a daughter or a god, Morrigan?"

A god, of course. Why else would she have suffered all the indignities of childbirth? It had always been about power - in the beginning, in any case, protecting herself from the reckoning she was sure would come. Few things frightened her as much as the thought of someone delving into her skin, sinking their claws into her flesh as she raged, conscious and aware, a prisoner in her own body.

So she had taken Flemeth's plan, followed it to its natural conclusion - but was that what her mother had intended all along? To take the child as a vessel, leaving Morrigan alone? The thought had crossed her mind more than once, but Ishantha was so powerful, so secure in her abilities, it had seemed impossible for her defences to be breached, even by one as ancient and terrible as Flemeth. But Ishantha was young and arrogant. She had thought to use her powers against Morrigan herself - had applied them judiciously on Sylvanna, and that had created an appalling mess, had it not?

Then there was that unfortunate business with the princess. It came too close to one of Flemeth's machinations, the stealing away of a child barely old enough to talk. In the safety and solitude of her own mind, she could admit it: her daughter was no longer under her control.

"What happens once Ferelden falls, Morrigan? What happens when she spreads north, taking over the Free Marches, Nevarra, Tevinter, leaving mindless servants in her wake? Is that truly what you intended?"

Morrigan took a step back, averting her eyes. The Arling of Redcliffe spread silver and white beneath them, Lake Calenhad bordered by a copse of skeletal trees. "'Tis the nature of the weak to submit to those more powerful-"

"If you believe that, then you're as blind as you are beautiful." Sylvanna grabbed her wrist, turning Morrigan to face her. Morrigan gasped, her bones pressing together beneath a gloved hand. "She is no mortal queen, directing her subjects. Our - our daughter has no respect for free will, not when it stands in the way of her goals." Sylvanna's lips twisted in a sneer. "Do you agree?"

Morrigan had almost fallen prey to Ishantha's machinations. Did that make her weak, or her daughter powerful? Perhaps both things were true. "Unhand me."

"Do you agree?"

Morrigan jerked away, but Sylvanna was too strong. She found herself pressed against the frozen battlements, her wrist still trapped in Sylvanna's grasp.

Sylvanna leant close until her breath tickled Morrigan's ear, and repeated her question, lips lingering as she waited for a response.

Morrigan closed her eyes, took a breath, and released it. When next she looked down, Sylvanna's gaze was fixed upon her. She could read nothing from that cold and alien face.

"Yes," Morrigan whispered.

Sylvanna breathed out. For a moment, it seemed as though she were like to kiss her - and Morrigan would have slapped her for the temerity, but the moment passed, and Sylvanna stepped away. Morrigan's sudden, painful stab of disappointment was as unexpected as it was unwelcome. To distract herself, she glanced down. The inch of skin between her palm and cuff had already begun to bruise, and she shook out her sleeve so that it draped over the mark.

"Then you understand that she must be stopped."

The next word of betrayal stuck further in Morrigan's throat. Stopped? How, precisely, did one 'stop' a being with the power of an Old God?

Sylvanna was no longer looking at her. Morrigan followed her gaze past the gatehouse, in the direction of Denerim. The softly falling snow veiled the castle walls, dusting the crenellations with white. They stood for a time, the silence lengthening between them. Morrigan steadied her breath, and tightened her grip around the phylactery in her palm.

"It's so beautiful," Sylvanna murmured. To Morrigan's disquiet, a tear slid down Sylvanna's face, freezing on her cheek. "It is, isn't it? I don't think I ever saw it before."

There was a certain glacial purity to the landscape, giving a false impression of peace. Morrigan would not go so far as to call it beautiful, but it possessed an untamed grace, the inevitability of nature dominating above all.

"I'm sorry, Morrigan. I truly am. I wish there was some other way."

Morrigan found her voice at last, forcing herself to look at Sylvanna. "What have you been hiding all this time? What did the darkspawn tell you?"

Sylvanna abandoned the view, her eyes feverish with an inner glow. "What if there was a way to separate the two? What if the god could be removed from the girl?"

Morrigan shook her head, her throat suddenly dry. "You speak of fables. 'Tis impossible-"

"If it were possible. Would you help me?"

"I-" Doubt clouded her thoughts, and she pursed her lips. "'Tis no more possible for you to cease being an elf, Sylvanna. Do not play me for a fool."

"It's not the same." Sylvanna's voice hardened, the softness falling from her gaze. "The darkspawn know things we on the surface have long forgotten. They have lived closest to the Old Gods, sought them all their lives-"

"The darkspawn are naught but mindless brutes!"

"Not all of them! Not anymore. There is a way, Morrigan. There is a way we can save her. That's what you want, isn't it? Even you must realise that her divinity will doom us all."

Everything depended on her next few words. Morrigan took a breath, but stopped at the look on Sylvanna's face. "How?" The question was barely a whisper.

The corners of Sylvanna's lips lifted in a smirk. "How well can you keep a secret, Morrigan?" She upheld a hand to forestall argument. "Against an Old God, not very well, I'd imagine. She will see through us in a heartbeat if I dared tell. You've taught her that even kin cannot be trusted."

In any other situation, Morrigan would have been proud; it was eminently sensible to mistrust others. 'Sensible' and 'convenient in the here and now' were two very different things, however.

Morrigan raised a brow. "Yet she will trust you?"

"She has trusted me so far." Sylvanna spat the words like a curse. "Why would she think me capable of deceit? That is the flaw we must exploit - her overconfidence in her own abilities."

Ishantha had promised - she had promised that Sylvanna would never betray them again. Morrigan remembered the last time all too well; her hand hovered over the scar on her chest, buried beneath layers of warm clothing. She glanced down to reassure herself that Sylvanna was unarmed.

"Why have you not taken your vengeance upon me?" Morrigan challenged. "Did you not desire that most of all?"

Sylvanna's face became even paler. "You know nothing about my desires," she said, the words as cold as the falling snow. "Suffice to say, we have larger concerns. Everything else... will have to wait."

To be put aside so easily would have once been insufferable. Morrigan had killed for lesser slights. With a great effort of will, she swallowed the rancour brewing in her throat. "This darkspawn ritual... 'tis a form of blood magic, I presume?"

Sylvanna shook her head. "If we are to proceed, I can tell you nothing. You asked me to trust you, that night in Redcliffe. Perhaps if I had, none of this might have happened. I am asking you to trust me now."

"You ask too much-"

"Morrigan." Sylvanna's eyes narrowed. "If there was even the slightest chance, the slimmest hope to have your daughter returned to you - your daughter, and nothing more. Would you not take it? Can't you see that she will enslave all of Thedas if we do nothing?"

It was impossible. It had to be impossible - and yet, she found herself desperately longing to believe.

She had known this day would come. Each year she had watched her daughter growing ever stronger and wilful, each time she had observed a thoughtless little slight and looked away - she had known. She had known that power always came with a price.

Would there be anything left, without Urthemiel's soul? Was there still a child beneath the god? The very notion sounded like stripping a mage of their magic - a terrible procedure from which nightmares were born. Would Ishantha become like a tranquil, devoid of everything she used to be?

"I cannot. Do not ask this of me, Sylvanna."

"I'm not asking. I'm begging." Sylvanna glanced aside for a moment, fingers pressed to her lips. "Morrigan - I love her as my own. You know that, surely! I would not suggest this if I didn't believe with all my heart that we will succeed."

Morrigan glanced down at the phylactery still in her hand, the blood dark and thick. "You are certain?"

"I would stake my life on it."

She heard Flemeth's mocking laughter, and felt something brush her shoulder. She glanced behind, but there was only the breeze, and the slow drift of snow.

"You knew," Morrigan said. "You knew of this since you met the darkspawn. Why did you not speak to me?"

Sylvanna lowered her gaze. "I couldn't risk Ishantha overhearing. Whilst she remained at Redcliffe, there was always the chance that she would interfere before we had time to act."

Morrigan stiffened. "You assume that I will aid you in this. I should cut you down where you stand."

Sylvanna bit her lip. "You know what she's capable of, more than anyone. You know her potential. It doesn't have to be that way." She reached for Morrigan's hands, and somehow Morrigan allowed her to take them, though she winced at the pressure against her bruises.

"She will not be harmed," Morrigan said.

Sylvanna drew the phylactery back from Morrigan's grasp, the necklace dangling between her fingers. "No."

Morrigan reached for her chin, forcing Sylvanna to look at her. "Promise me."

Sylvanna's eyes widened. "I promise."

There were many more questions in want of answers, but each moment they dallied, her daughter slipped further and further from their reach. Perhaps it was already too late. Would Morrigan live to see the world submit beneath Ishantha's heel? It had seemed such an impossibility: the girl was too young, the Chantry too powerful.

The past year had all but proven that Morrigan possessed no skill at prophecy.

She studied Sylvanna's face a moment more before she released her hold. Her assurances would have to suffice. For now.

"Then tell me what we must do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm taking considerable liberties with BioWare's odd decision to give us a auto-resurrecting tabby. Anders termed him a 'spirit' (in my canon), but DA constantly reminds us that the line between demon and spirit is practically non-existent.
> 
> With many thanks to interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, My Sweet Lenore, often indecisive, roxfox1962, Spikesagitta, Wagontrain and Zero-Vision for the reviews. I really appreciate the support, guys. Thank you! &lt;3


	43. The Road Less Travelled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> I already recced Ygrain33's m!Cousland/Morrigan in 'Succumbing to Weakness' and 'Necessary Things', where I realised I had a teeny, tiny crush on Ned Cousland - his story continues onto Awakening from Nate Howe's pov in [His Father's Son](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6852833/). No Morrigan, alas, but well worth the read. WIP.

** Recap - Alistair, Anders, Guillaume, Pounce - chapter 41 **

[Soldier's Peak]

Alistair: So, magical-healing-cat, I have a friend who's dying and-

Pounce: *claws at him*

Alistair: Why doesn't anyone ever do what I ask? Is that so hard?

[Basement of Soldier's Peak]

Alistair: Junk, junk, junk - ooh, letters incriminating my brother - junk...

Alistair: Sylvanna secretly left some sacred ashes here without telling me. Great, one more reason to hate her.

[Soldier's Peak]

Guillaume: *revives*

Avernus: *takes notes*

Alistair: Yay, we're all alive, and I didn't even have to find a ninth-level cleric!

Anders: One dead woman's ashes, and suddenly everyone's a healer. *sniffs*

Alistair: We should be on our way to Redcliffe.

Guillaume: No.

Anders: Yeah, no.

Alistair: Rescuing baby!Theirin, everyone! It's for a good cause!

Guillaume: No.

Anders: What he said.

Alistair: How about we play 'let's do as Alistair commands because he's the protagonist'?

Guillaume: If you ask nicely.

Anders: Does that make me the love interest?

Alistair: No. A thousand times, no!

Anders: *sulks*

* * *

**The Bannorn**

Alistair felt his horse stumble, catching herself at the last moment before she planted him head-first into the ground. "Easy," he soothed, laying a hand across her neck. Her muscles stood out, lathered and rigid beneath his hand.

Anders caught up to him, slowing to a trot as he reached Alistair's side. "You're riding them to death," he accused, frowning. "Alistair, we need to stop. When was the last time you slept?"

"I slept in the saddle," Alistair lied. He didn't need rest. Sleep only brought nightmares and hallucinations: his daughter dismembered, his kingdom in flames, and above them all, Morrigan, her hair streaming in the wind, laughing as she burnt all he had ever loved to the ground.

Guillaume reached them a moment later, reining in his gelding. "There is a village up ahead. If we hurry, we should reach it before dark."

"We can rest and resupply," Anders said. "Crakenhall, isn't it? I think I've passed through here before. Boring place, but no templars."

Alistair said nothing. The longer they dawdled, the worse his nightmares became. He glanced up at the sky. It was already growing dark. "Fine," he said grudgingly. "But we leave at first light."

Anders and Guillaume nodded without speaking. Alistair spurred his mare into a trot, leading the others by a few yards. Neither of them understood. How could they? It was not their child being held prisoner.

They reached Crakenhall after sunset. It was just as small and deserted as Anders had warned, smaller even than Lothering. Alistair let Anders handle most of the talking, keeping as low a profile as possible. Not that he expected anyone here to recognise the king on sight - not this scruffy, unwashed excuse for a king - but it never hurt to be careful.

Whilst the other two wardens secured their lodgings, Alistair stabled the horses and tended to them himself. The smell of straw and horse shit reminded him so much of Redcliffe, the winter nights spent sleeping in the loft, listening to the arlessa's Nevarran palfrey whickering in her sleep. He was surely more tired than he felt, waxing nostalgic for a place that had never truly been home.

He found Anders and Guillaume sitting down to dinner when he ventured inside, trying to ignore the awkward gawking of strangers as he sidled across to their table. They were probably just staring at his armour, he told himself; the suit was devoid of heraldry and ornamentation, but serviceable. Its sale could probably feed a family for a year.

"I hate to say this," Anders began, shoving a bowl of stew towards Alistair, "but I think we're being followed."

Alistair took a spoonful of stew, almost choked, then forced himself to swallow. "Why didn't you mention this earlier?"

Guillaume rolled his eyes. "Because he has no proof. We have been crossing deserted fields for days."

"Pounce has been acting really weirdly," Anders insisted. "And I swear I felt something on the ride in - like someone was trying to see through my skull-"

"More likely a lyrium-induced hallucination-"

"Anders," Alistair cut in sharply. "Who's following us, and how close are they?"

The mage raised his hands in a shrug. Guillaume made the sign for insanity, and sighed.

"Maker's breath." Alistair rubbed a fist across his forehead to stave off an incoming headache. He thought they had left the last of the assassins back at Vigil's Keep; surely they couldn't have been tracked all the way across the Bannorn? "There are wards you can set up against that, right?"

"If I knew what it was and what it wanted, I suppose I could tailor something, but I need specifics-"

"Do them all," Alistair said. Anders gave him an affronted look, but he found it impossible to bring himself to care. "Whatever you do, do it quickly. We need to leave-"

"At first light, we know." Anders sighed and rolled his eyes. He and Guillaume exchanged a look.

Alistair knew he was in trouble when both of them agreed about anything. "How are we for food and supplies?" he asked, braving another mouthful of stew.

"I repacked our bags. Enough to carry us to Redcliffe," Guillaume said.

Alistair nodded. Each of them stared at their food, concentrating on keeping down the inedible mush. Anders seemed to actually enjoy it, which was a little disconcerting.

None of them dared to speak of what would happen after they had reached Redcliffe. Despite his firm assurances to Anders and Guillaume, Alistair had no idea what he would do once he found his daughter. Perhaps if he asked nicely, Morrigan's child might simply let her go. Stranger things had happened, right?

"I'm going to get some rest." Alistair stood up so abruptly, he knocked over a mug of ale, the pale liquid seeping into the table.

Guillaume set the cup upright. "Our rooms are the first to the left of the stairs."

"There were only two available," Anders said, apologetically. "So I thought we'd pair up."

Alistair raised a brow. "Pair up?"

"You and Guillaume. Pounce and I."

Alistair opened his mouth to question the arrangement, thought better of it, and shut it again. "Right."

The stairs were narrow and creaking, the walkway barely wide enough for his shoulders. In the first room, he found Anders' cat curled up on the pallet. It raised its head and stared at him, eyes silver in the dim light, making it look even more demonic than usual.

Alistair carefully backed away and shut the door.

The next room was barely big enough for one, let alone two. There was a window, so filthy that it might as well have been a wall. He sat on the bed and thought about sleep, but the very idea seemed impossible. Leaning his head against the backboard, he heard Anders settling into the room next to him, felt a whisper of magic flare and then subside.

There was no sign of Guillaume. Alistair picked up a taper, using it to light a hooded lantern. The light flickered against the walls, casting long shadows.

Downstairs, the inn was quiet, one lone serving girl wiping down the tables. She peeked at him, then lowered her eyes and flushed all the way down her neck. Alistair pretended he had not seen. It was too easy to see himself in her stammered greeting and blushing cheeks: a green young lad, praying to the Maker for someone to take him away from his provincial village.

A life of quiet obscurity. The notion seemed so idyllic now; no courtiers or squires, no seneschal or kingdom to oversee. Just a small house to call his own, a wife and children; no darkspawn, no mages, no gods but the Maker and His Beloved.

Outside the inn, there was still no sign of Guillaume. Alistair passed through the stables, the light from his lantern picking out the sleeping face of a stableboy, nestled in the loft. He felt a strange twinge of sympathy, watching the boy as he slept. No darkspawn were likely to ever plague his dreams.

There were only a few buildings clustered in the centre of the village. Alistair found himself standing before the Chantry, the only structure made of stone. He glanced around. There was no one in sight.

Inside, the brazier at the altar was already lit. Behind it stood a statue of Andraste carved roughly from wood, the lines between her fingers mere suggestions scored into club-like hands. It was hard to judge her sex from her face alone; her cheeks were whorled and angular, lips pursed in a perpetual frown.

Chantries held a particular mix of terror and comfort for Alistair, the ingrained guilt from a childhood spent falling asleep once too many times inside their walls. The Chant was as familiar to him as the sound of his own breath, its lilting verses a constant companion during his templar training.

He sank to his knees, eyes closed, but prayers did not settle on his tongue as they once had. Andraste helped those who helped themselves. How best could he salvage his situation?

"I had not thought you the pious sort, Sire."

Alistair raised his head at the sound of Guillaume's voice, but did not turn. "I'm just full of surprises." He felt rather than heard Guillaume moving, his leather soles soundless on the stone. Guillaume knelt a few paces to the side and behind him.

Alistair closed his eyes again, trying to reclaim the threads of his thoughts. It was hard enough to concentrate on his own, but the sense of Guillaume's taint itched and wore at his consciousness until it made prayer an impossibility.

"You don't think we'll succeed," Alistair began without preamble. "This is all some mad king's folly to you, am I right?"

Guillaume hesitated before looking at him. "I thought I made my opinions clear, Sire."

"Why didn't you leave us at Vigil's Keep? You could have gone to Weisshaupt as you'd planned, or wherever you needed to be. Orlais."

"You saved my life."

"And you've saved mine many times over. So what?" If Alistair had been forced to repay everyone who had ever prevented him from being skewered or sawn in half, the treasury would have gone bankrupt a long, long time ago. Guillaume continued watching him with a carefully blank face, still as Andraste herself. "I just want to know what keeps you here."

Guillaume snorted. "You want to know if you can trust me." He paused. "Very well." He rose to his feet, and Alistair followed suit. Andraste watched them both, silent and uncaring.

"I believe this quest of yours is folly. I believe we will die in the attempt." Guillaume looked to Andraste, as if seeking either strength or confirmation. "Ferelden is already lost, Sire, and your daughter along with her. It will be up to others to win this fight."

Alistair had heard the stories from Redcliffe. Small wonder that neither Anders nor Guillaume had confidence in him. "You didn't answer my question," he insisted. "Why are you still here?"

Guillaume glanced aside for a moment, as if considering. In the light, he looked haggard, his face drawn and grey. Alistair had always assumed that the man was his elder by a decade or so, but now those ten years looked more like twenty.

"I have no children," Guillaume began, "but I can sympathise with your plight. We all yearn to protect those we love."

There was a story behind those words, that much was certain. "Grey wardens are supposed to forgo family ties and kinship." Not that Alistair had ever been troubled by that policy - bastard sons of kings, it seemed, proved the exception to the rule.

"I have never claimed to be a perfect grey warden, Sire."

Guillaume Falaize. Alistair knew that name, didn't he? There were several Orlesians at court; he supped with the de Carracs and the du Lacs on a regular basis. He was certain he had heard the name 'Falaize' arise in conversation before...

_"Liselle Falaize. The Great Slag," Elissa sniffed, twirling a ringlet around her finger._

_"Don't you have better things to do besides gossip?" Alistair leaned over and kissed his wife's neck, to take the sting out of his words. "Besides, she's harmless."_

_Elissa turned to face him. "She's completely boorish. I don't know what in the Maker's name Ceorlic was thinking, bringing her to court. Thank Andraste she's never had the gall to approach Your Majesty." Her eyes narrowed. "What's so funny?"_

_Alistair wiped the grin off his face. "Nothing," he assured his wife. "Nothing at all."_

He had first met Liselle in the Denerim marketplace. The woman had been surprisingly chatty, spilling her life's story at the merest hint of compassion. Sylvanna had made the appropriate sympathetic noises whilst Alistair had seethed. The chevaliers in Orlais were untouchable, treating the lesser born as though they were property. How could any country let its citizens be so abused?

Sylvanna had given him an odd look. "Ferelden is no better," she had snapped, and then stalked off, leaving him to trail after her, unsure of how he was suddenly to blame.

Liselle said that she had been saved by her brother...

Alistair took a closer look at Guillaume. It was hard to tell, since he barely saw Liselle as it was, but it was possible that they shared the same nose and stubborn jaw. "You were conscripted into the wardens, weren't you? For murdering a chevalier."

If Guillaume was surprised, he made no show of it. "Assaulting. The man lived, much to my chagrin."

Alistair groped for something kind to say. Guillaume had visited the palace in Denerim, it was possible that he had overheard Liselle being discussed in an unflattering manner. "I think I met your sister during the Blight. She seemed to be doing well-"

"Well!" Guillaume barked out a laugh. "Indeed." He hesitated a moment. "It is not the life I would have wished for her, but she seems pleased enough with her lot."

Alistair would have said the same of Goldanna's life - the wishing part, not the being pleased part - at least before he took the crown. Anora had granted his sister and her children a house and small plot of land, plus an annuity. Apparently it was not respectable for the king's sister to wash laundry. Alistair only wished he had thought of it first. "Will you visit Liselle at court, once this is over?"

Guillaume froze. "Do you truly believe that any of us will see Denerim again?" He shook his head and muttered something under his breath in Orlesian. Alistair thought he heard the words for 'Maker' and 'fool'.

"If you really think we're all doomed, what would you have me do?" Alistair asked.

Guillaume gave him a look. Alistair recognised that expression from Hernays - the look of a man resigned to following the king's lead, wherever it might take them. "Pray, Your Majesty," Guillaume said. He turned away without waiting for a dismissal. "Whatever you do, do it quickly. A new day is coming."

Just like that, Alistair found himself alone once more.

.

.

.

Prayer came no easier with Guillaume gone. Alistair shifted his weight to one knee, then the other. At last he gave up, and found a bench. Andraste probably wouldn't mind. Plate was not meant to be prayed in, no matter what the templars might have thought.

He ought to leave the praying to the faithful and actually get some rest. Duncan had always taught him that fatigue in the face of the enemy was a death sentence, and he had seen enough battles to know that it was true.

Alistair had pushed them hard across the Bannorn. By all rights, he ought to have been unconscious as soon as his head hit his pillow. It was as if the taint itself sustained him, letting him cope with barely any sleep.

What did he expect to find, assuming his daughter still remained alive and well? There were no answers in Andraste's face, but he stared at her all the same, as if the dark wood would miraculously grant him wisdom.

Andraste was a mother, had raised her own children before submitting to the flames. Wouldn't she understand how he felt?

Alistair had never known his mother, saddled only with the guilt that he was the reason for her death. King Maric had always been a distant, untouchable figure, dead long before Alistair had reached his majority. The king had known of his existence, but had never visited, had never written him a single letter. No one had even taken the time to inform Alistair about Maric's disappearance; he had heard the story from a servant girl by chance, as she gossipped with a fellow maid.

If rumour were true, Maric had spent little enough time with his legitimate son, Cailan. Alistair felt guilt turning his stomach. When was the last time he had played with his daughter? There was always some excuse, affairs of state, some reason to avoid his only child. What was it that made kings such awful fathers?

Now it might be too late. Perhaps this was how Maric felt as the waves consumed him, filled with regret for all that might have been. All that should have been.

Alistair pressed two fingers to his temples. Everything had seemed so much clearer during the Blight. Sure, everyone had been trying to kill them and their dog, but it had all made sense: find the archdemon. Kill the archdemon. Simple, right?

Now that the archdemon was a little girl, suddenly everything had changed. He had changed.

Alistair stood. He reached for his lantern, leaving the brazier burning before the altar. The light of the Maker should never be extinguished.

Outside, the night remained pitch-black, a few lonely stars peeking out from behind the clouds. Alistair reached the inn, looking up into its dark windows. He thought he could detect a flicker of magefire from Anders' room, but it was impossible to be sure at this distance.

The front door beckoned to him. He took one step past it, then another. And another.

Dawn was still a few hours away. He ducked into the stables, saddling the same mare he had ridden to the village. She nuzzled his hand, and he stroked her nose.

"We're not going far," he promised her. She stared at him through long, dark lashes. Maker, perhaps he ought to have remained a stableboy all his life. Things would have been so much easier.

He took the other two horses with him, one on each side, looping their reins around his wrists. Guillaume and Anders would likely try to follow him, but with any luck, Alistair would be beyond their reach by the time they learnt he was gone. No one else needed to be hurt by his mistakes.

He chose his direction almost at random, letting his horse lead him where she pleased. He held the lantern high to guide her path, maintaining a steady walking pace to prevent the horses stumbling in the dark.

The distance between houses became longer and longer as he left the village proper, until there were no buildings or structures at all, just a narrow dirt path. Alistair led the horses off the path onto the soft grassy plain, one hand not straying far from the hilt of his sword. He had heard the howling of wolves the night before, and although their party had not been harassed, one man and his charges might seem easy prey by themselves.

Guillaume and Anders would probably be relieved to find him gone, he told himself. Perhaps not at first, but in time, he hoped the two wardens would realise he had done all he could.

The Old God would not stop with his daughter. What was there to prevent Her from challenging the Divine herself, the Empress of Orlais, the Imperial Archon? She was only a child, now. What would happen when She reached maturity?

Mortals and gods were never meant to walk in the same realm, everyone knew that. Even elves had stories about the follies of mortals who dared think themselves the equals of gods, who dared to question, to struggle... to love. He'd had an army. He had lost it. What could he hope to do with two wardens?

No, it was much better this way. Better not to be a king or a grey warden at all, but merely himself - Alistair. A father.

Dawn crept towards him with her grey and purple fingers. He dismounted, tethering the horses to a tree. One of them bent his head and began to graze, thoroughly unconcerned.

There was light enough now that he blew out his lantern, tucking it into a saddle bag. Across the field was a narrow stream, widening to a lake as flat as glass. He found a spot to sit, lowering himself carefully in his plate. The armour creaked and groaned.

His fingers sought Avernus' little ward, plucking it from his tabard. He rolled it in his palm. It felt warm to the touch, a crimson disc barely longer than his thumb. He glanced at his reflection in its smooth surface, his face a mere suggestion of features, a flash of eyes and teeth.

Avernus had claimed that the wards would prevent detection, allowing them to rescue Alistair's daughter without alerting the Old God to their presence. Alistair assumed that each ward worked through contact, or perhaps just proximity. He was no mage, but the ward seemed similar to the kind of spell that created a physical barrier. If the ward was far away, then it should grant him no protection at all.

Alistair hefted the ward in his hand, pulled back his arm, and hurled it as far as he could. It skittered across the water, once, twice, three times, before sinking with a quiet splash.

The sun continued to rise. Pink and gold spread over the water, clouds captured in the stillness of the lake. A lovely winter's morning in northern Ferelden.

He felt Her presence even before She spoke. It came over him like a distant strain of music, soft and low. Perhaps this was what Anders had spoken of: the Song at the Redcliffe siege. It was a slippery thing; just when he thought he had learnt its tune, a new variation began, its comprehension always just beyond his reach.

Alistair rose, not wishing to seem disrespectful, and doffed his helm.

His daughter smiled.

"Hello, Father."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to interesting2125, miralinda, Misdirection, mutive, My Sweet Lenore, often indecisive, roxfox1962, ScOut4It, Spikesagitta, Victorita9 and Zero-Vision for the reviews.


	44. Stumbling Towards the Inevitable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and to juri and sqbr for the plot advice.
> 
> There's definitely a pattern to the drabbles I'm currently favouriting. To say any more would spoil it. This week's rec is [Quietus](http://www.fanfiction.com/s/7117644/1/Quietus) by Enaid Aderyn.

** Recap - Morrigan, Sylvanna - chapter 42 **

[Redcliffe]

Ishantha: Mum, Dad disappeared and didn't even leave a note!

Morrigan: Why should I care?

Ishantha: Because you love me and need to support my every endeavour?

Morrigan: ...

[The Fade]

Ishantha: I want Alistair's location, and I want it now.

Pounce: *yawns*

Ishantha: I'll kill your human! Horribly and painfully!

Pounce: Fine. I'll show you where your king is hiding.

Ishantha: Yay!

[Redcliffe]

Morrigan: Ishantha is gone, and I am certain that this is all your fault.

Sylvanna: Could I interest you in a phylactery?

Morrigan: Where did you find such a thing?

Sylvanna: I've been lying to you for the past few weeks.

Morrigan: I need answers. Now.

Sylvanna: What if there was a way out? The loop in your hole, so to speak?

Morrigan: This does not fill me with confidence.

Sylvanna: Let me remind you of all the reasons why bringing an Old God into the world was a terrible, terrible idea.

[_etc._]

Sylvanna: Well? Are you going to help me trim the OG off the OGB, or do I have to convince you some more?

Morrigan: Coercion check, please.

Sylvanna: W00t! Natural 20!

Morrigan: Give me that die. 'Tis weighted! You deceitful charlatan!

Sylvanna: I only did what I had to do.

* * *

**Redcliffe**

Betrayal was the one constant in the world, and Morrigan had never found cause to believe otherwise. Flemeth had betrayed her, concealing Morrigan's true purpose for years; she had repaid the old biddy as best she knew how. Sylvanna had betrayed her. Ishantha had betrayed her.

To expect anything less was naive.

Morrigan had taught her daughter that intimacy was no protection against treachery. Indeed, who better to exploit one's weaknesses and strengths than a close friend or lover? The lesson had been hard-earned; even as a babe in arms, Ishantha had understood the frailty of maids and men all too well.

She would see them coming.

Morrigan could see her face, the initial bewilderment, the tears threatening to fall from her eyes - the confusion that would turn, all too quickly, to divine rage. Death would be a mercy denied to them; few creatures in the world could be as pitiless and unrelenting as a tearful child.

If she failed. If she faltered.

It seemed such a waste - such an irreversible folly, to allow Urthemiel's strength to seep from the world, unrealised and unmourned. If only she could stop it from dissipating altogether, she could seize its power for herself, realising her true destiny by both saving her child and the ancient soul she harboured. It had been a mistake, allowing Ishantha full reign over her abilities before she was grown - she could see that now. How could a child ever presume to contain the soul of a god?

She had hoped that Urthemiel's abilities would develop slowly, lying dormant until her daughter came of age. So much for her best-laid plans.

Morrigan was no child, however. Were Urthemiel's power to be separated from her daughter, it would seek to preserve itself... by any means necessary.

She would not stand back and witness the ruination of all she had worked for. If she could contain the same energy that Sylvanna sought to strip away, she could act as a sanctuary, a... host.

Morrigan glanced up to see the hem of Sylvanna's skirt disappearing around a corner. She took the stairs two at a time, practically flying down the ice-rimmed steps. Sylvanna would never approve of her plans, of course, but she need not know. Morrigan had confided in her once, with disastrous results; she would not make the same mistake again.

Flemeth had known of such a process, surely. Morrigan had studied the old crone's books from cover to cover, memorising each minute detail. There had to be something there she could use. Something Sylvanna would never expect. Some spell her daughter could not hope to avoid.

She was so lost in thought that the end of the stairs came as a complete surprise. Her foot slid out from under her, followed shortly by a headlong tumble, her hands seeking to break her fall, and finding only Sylvanna's arms.

Frost dusted the fur edge of Sylvanna's cloak, tickling her lips. She felt Sylvanna stiffen against her, hands tightening close before she stepped away, holding Morrigan at arms' length. "Careful," she murmured, eyes averted.

Morrigan gathered what dignity remained to her and brushed down her skirts. "Shall we proceed?"

Sylvanna nodded. All the same, she hesitated before moving away, her eyes flicking over Morrigan as if passing some kind of judgement upon her. Morrigan bit her lip. Sylvanna's opinion did not matter, she reminded herself. All Morrigan needed from Sylvanna was the opportunity to twist her ritual to her own ends. Nothing more.

Sylvanna led them to the solar, ushering Morrigan inside before closing the door and turning a key in the lock. Morrigan busied herself making a fire. She stood for a moment, warming her hands, before observing her surroundings. Maps were scattered on a long table, various beakers and jars of herbs littering the shelves. Sylvanna had set Anders' phylactery on the table, though she seemed loath to release it.

"Give it here," Morrigan instructed, holding out her hand. Sylvanna passed it over, fingers lingering on the vial until Morrigan snatched it from her grasp. "Can you be certain that our daughter will be near this warden?"

"It's our best chance."

"Assuming you are correct, and we ascertain her true location, how did you intend to reach her? She may be leagues away."

"I thought-" Sylvanna blushed. "I thought you could teach me to - change." At Morrigan's blank expression, she pursed her lips and elaborated. "Shape change."

Sylvanna had only once tried to master the art of shifting, and that had been years ago, during the Blight. The attempt had been a disastrous failure, and she had not professed interest in the subject since.

"Shapeshift," Morrigan repeated. Sylvanna remained still under her scrutiny. "Would we not travel faster with the aid of the Dalish? Perhaps their halla-"

"No." Sylvanna shook her head. "We can't involve anyone else. What do you expect to happen to all those enthralled when the Old God's hold is broken?"

The thought had not previously crossed Morrigan's mind. "I suppose - after the Blight, the darkspawn returned underground-"

"An unfortunate comparison, but I agree. The Arling of Redcliffe and the Dalish clans will most likely return to how they were, if we are lucky."

"And if we are not?"

Sylvanna busied herself with a pile of papers, not raising her eyes. "Let's just hope that we are."

Were Morrigan to find herself suddenly free from a state of enthralment, her need for vengeance would be urgent... and bloody. She watched Sylvanna's idle fingers toying with the corner of the map. She would never understand her.

Morrigan sighed and returned to the subject at hand. "The arling has horses-"

"I don't want a horse."

Neither did Morrigan, but there she had good cause. The last time she had approached a horse, she had only just returned from wolf form, and of course the mindless, domesticated beast had shied instantly at the smell of her. "Fine," she snapped. "If you believe you can master a form in what little time we have remaining, be my guest. 'Tis clearly not my place to rid you of your delusions."

Alistair and his wretched grey wardens could be less than a mile away for all she knew, making the entire argument moot. With rather more force than was necessary, she uncorked the vial she had taken from Sylvanna, upending its contents into a bowl. Her blade shred into the fleshy part of her thumb, careful to avoid contamination with the warden blood. All the while, Sylvanna watched over her shoulder like a shadow.

Anders' blood was old, degraded both by time and proximity to the darkspawn and their ilk. Sweat beaded on Morrigan's forehead, and she forced herself to relax, to search deeper. Scrying and divination had always been a game played best by her mother; Flemeth had been famed for her talents, possessing knowledge and skill that Morrigan could never hope to attain. She heard her mother's laughter mocking her; gritting her teeth, she forced herself to concentrate. She would not be defeated. She would not.

.

.

.

Morrigan's vision bobbed gently up and down, explained by the glimpse in her periphery of a horse's pricked ears and tousled mane. She bit down a surge of panic as she glanced at hands not her own - grimy nails and curled blond hair. Anders. 'Twas as simple as crossing into the Fade, she told herself. Her own body awaited her return, safe and sound. Fears quelled, she forced herself to listen.

"'And that was two silvers ago.' Then she says-"

"Anders, shut up." Her vision swung abruptly to the right. That was him, sure enough - Morrigan would recognise that Theirin nose anywhere. How old he looked. She had seen him recently in the Fade, of course, but had scarcely paid him any mind - now she gloated over the crow's feet, the etched lines of his jowls, the week of stubble and really, that beard. She would have laughed, had she been able. Did he think it imposing? Kingly?

Anders grew silent, but only for a moment. His gaze rose from the worn dirt path to a clump of buildings in the distance, small wooden houses and shops. "We're here," he said sullenly. "Crakenhall."

"Thank the Maker." The third voice was Orlesian. Morrigan wished that Anders would turn around and give her a glance at the speaker, but in this, the mage was stubbornly unhelpful.

The saddlebags on Anders' horse rustled. "Did you have a lovely nap, Ser Pounce-a-lot?" Anders asked, in tones so syrupy Morrigan could have used them to rot teeth. Another domesticated slave, she presumed.

Anders reached down and turned back the flap on the saddlebag. True to her suspicions, from the bag emerged a fat, yawning tabby. It nuzzled Anders' hand, and irrationally, Morrigan felt a surge of affection - clearly she was not guarding herself fully from that idiot mage's emotions - and then the cat turned to look at her.

And through her.

She could only watch in horror as the tabby flattened its ears, fur puffing up to ridiculous fullness.

"Pounce, what's the matter?"

Morrigan shrank down at the back of Anders' mind. That was no cat. What was a grey warden mage doing with such a thing? Surely he knew the dangers?

As if in response, she felt Anders stiffen. The blood, she remembered. She had to break the bond-

The disconnect came as a lurching fall, save that this time, there was no one to catch her. _Home_, she thought frantically. _Home, home, home._

The ground rose to meet her.

.

.

.

"Morrigan. Morrigan. Do you have something?"

She glanced up. The shadows had lengthened, dusk tingeing the light with gold. "Crakenhall," she croaked, swallowing to ease the dryness in her throat. "Alistair's in Crakenhall."

She had landed awkwardly on the floor of the solar; her hip ached, and she was sure she had bruised a knee in the fall. The bowl containing Anders' blood had been knocked over, a stain spreading into the thick Orlesian rugs.

"Yes. I see it." Sylvanna's voice came as though distant. Morrigan glanced up, watching Sylvanna trace a finger over her maps. "North-east." She groaned in frustration. "We'd need to fly to get there in time."

Morrigan climbed to her feet and looked at the map. The distance was not so great; if she were forced to journey alone, she could have reached Alistair in a day. "Flying will not do, unless you intend to arrive at your destination naked as the day you were born. We will need to bring clothes, boots. Weapons. Things that cannot be carried by air."

"But-" Sylvanna hesitated. "We could bundle those things up. If you were a wolf, you could carry them in your mouth-"

Morrigan's expression twisted to show Sylvanna what she thought of that suggestion.

"You could," Sylvanna insisted. "And I could be something small. Like a-"

"Mouse?" Morrigan suggested, her lip curling.

Sylvanna had already turned away from her. The great window in the solar stretched from knee to ceiling - an Orlesian extravagance, the extreme waste of glass. The dying sun did light Sylvanna in a somewhat appealing manner, Morrigan admitted grudgingly; the pinks gave colour to her skin and lit aflame what remained of her hair.

"I thought perhaps a sparrow," Sylvanna said dreamily.

Morrigan scoffed. "Not a hawk? Nor an owl? 'Twould serve you right to be plucked from the sky and eaten, should we proceed."

Sylvanna laughed. "That ought to be the least of our concerns."

Morrigan rolled her eyes. "If you cannot be dissuaded, fetch me a sparrow, and we shall see if you can fly." Not that she expected anything to come of it. Sylvanna would most likely have to ride, though that plan was not without its drawbacks - Sylvanna was a near-useless horsewoman.

"Thank you. Thank you," Sylvanna gushed, suddenly all of seventeen again, her face lit with delight. "Stay here - I shan't be long."

Sylvanna ran out the door, not even pausing to give her a chance to respond. Morrigan sighed. She was certainly not going to wait whilst Sylvanna pursued an impossibility.

Instead, she went to their room to pack: winter clothes for the two of them, moccasins, Morrigan's silverite dagger. She paused, then added a few vials of lyrium. No doubt her child would prove troublesome, not to mention Alistair, should he think to interfere, or his two companions, or that... cat that was anything but a cat. Morrigan shuddered. She could still feel its eyes upon her, that piercing look that saw straight through her tricks. A foe not to be underestimated.

When she returned to the solar with her bundle of goods, Sylvanna was already waiting for her, pacing impatiently. "What took you so long?" she demanded. In her hands she held a cage used for hawking, a miserable brown sparrow flitting within its bars.

"How did you-" Morrigan began. Sylvanna glared at her. Morrigan closed her mouth. "Nevermind." She reached for the cage, letting magic course through her fingers; just a touch of drowsiness to calm the bird. She opened the cage, and the sparrow fluttered straight into her waiting hands, its heart pulsing with frantic regularity against her palm.

She hesitated. "Sylvanna, are you certain-"

"Yes, Maker, yes! We're wasting time. Show me." Sylvanna held up a dagger, the dying sunlight glinting along the blade.

Morrigan bit down her remaining protests, and exposed the bird's soft underbelly. Sylvanna tenderly stroked its quivering throat with a single finger. The look in her eyes made Morrigan's heart grow cold.

"Thank you, little one," Sylvanna crooned. She slit the sparrow open, and its life poured over Morrigan's hands.

It was one thing to take a new form, but quite another to aid someone else through the process. Morrigan had learnt the shapes of similar birds, though not one so small. One autumn, Ishantha had complained bitterly of the cold, and they had taken a short journey together to warmer climes. Sylvanna had been left at home, of course; Morrigan had never understood why she had made such a fuss at their leaving. During childhood, Morrigan had always been delighted when Flemeth left the Wilds on some long sojourn. There was no reason why Sylvanna could not see things in the same light.

Morrigan pressed down hard on the pad of her thumb, reopening the wound she had made earlier, divining Anders' location. Sylvanna pricked one of her own fingers. Morrigan frowned. There was something strange about her blood - but there was no more time to think.

Sylvanna took the dying bird in her hands. Morrigan exhaled. She pressed her fingers over Sylvanna's, tightening her grip until she heard Sylvanna gasp.

"Focus," she instructed. "Do not resist it, no matter the discomfort. It shall ease." They should have begun with something larger, like a fox. The sensation of being crammed into a body several times too small could be quite unsettling.

Something was happening. Sylvanna threw her head back, feathers sprouting across the line of her throat, ears flattening, jaw reshaping into a beak. The process of transformation was a gruesome sight. Morrigan had no qualms about nudity, but this in-between stage was something else, and in any other situation, she would have averted her eyes.

It was too slow, too tentative. Morrigan let her power flare, to push Sylvanna further into her new body, but it was no use. There was a sharp crack, like breaking glass, and Sylvanna fell to the floor, thrashing. For a moment Morrigan thought she might be trapped, suspended forever between bird and woman, but gradually the feathers receded, the beak diminishing to smooth cheeks and lips.

Morrigan knelt down to offer a hand. "'Twas a worthy effort," she began. Sylvanna's fringe obscured her face, though Morrigan could see her shoulders shaking. "With time, I am certain you could improve-"

"Time?" The word came out as a snarl. "We don't. Have. Time." Sylvanna's fingers latched onto the table, pulling herself up inch by inch. In her other hand, the little sparrow's legs dangled, lifeless and limp; dead from the pressure of Sylvanna's fist, if not from the blood loss.

"I warned you, did I not? I told you, the art takes years to master. 'Twas folly to attempt such a sudden transition."

Sylvanna leant over the table, her breathing harsh and unsteady. Her fist tightened with the sound of tiny bones snapping, her other hand sweeping across the table, maps, quills and ink tumbling to the floor. Her back curled in a hunch, noises emerging from her throat that might have been either laughter or sobs.

Morrigan stood at a loss. Eventually she bent to retrieve the maps from the floor, smoothing them over her knee. "Sylvanna, we must leave." Already the light had faded, the room lit only by the crackling fire.

Sylvanna straightened, wiping the back of her hand across her face. "Yes. Of course." She fumbled in her robes, pulling out a handkerchief. Tenderly, she wrapped the bird's corpse, knotting the corners to make a bundle. She walked with shambling steps to the fire, dangling the little sparrow from the crook of a finger.

"Sylvanna, please-"

Sylvanna ignored her. "Your sacrifice has not gone unheeded. May you know peace at the Maker's side."

She dropped her little bundle into the fire, and stood back a full minute, watching it catch aflame. The smell of burning feathers filled the air, and Morrigan held a sleeve to her nose, her eyes watering.

Sylvanna turned. Blood dripped from her fingers, trails of it caked on her face. The fire lit her eyes from below, spreading shadows across her cheeks.

"Let's go find that wretched horse."

.

.

.

It took Sylvanna half an age to saddle her palfrey. Morrigan had chosen not to ride, slinking into the stables in the form of a sleek grey wolf. She found Sylvanna cursing as her horse reared before her, hooves pawing at the air.

"Oh Maker, give me strength!" Sylvanna flicked her wrist, her fingers dancing in a complicated pattern. The horse settled and quietened, though its nostrils flared, head tossing from side to side and showing the whites of its eyes. It took Sylvanna several tries before the horse would accept her weight, the beast shying at her slightest motion.

She pushed them on through the night, silent save for the few times she renewed her spells. It was Morrigan's guilty pleasure, feeling the gentle warmth of creation magic flowing down her spine, lengthening her stride and making each step weightless. They had left the borders of the arling far behind by the time Sylvanna called a halt, climbing shakily from her saddle.

Morrigan prowled the perimeter of the camp whilst Sylvanna tended to the horse. The breeze ruffled her fur, bringing interesting scents to her nose: a foxhole not far away, a lone vixen in her den. She glanced overhead. The moon was near to full, clouds parted. It had ceased snowing some hours ago; the cover in these woods remained pristine, unlike the slush trampled by hundreds of feet within Redcliffe Castle.

She had thought long and hard during their journey about how to approach her daughter. For now, it would be best to accede to Sylvanna's plans and present a united front. Once Sylvanna began her ritual, Morrigan would have her moment, a brief opportunity to seize what was truly hers.

One chance. One last chance to claim her heart's desire.

Had she been in human form, her hands would have been trembling.

When she returned to camp, she found a newly erected tent and fire, Sylvanna seated before its warmth. She padded near and settled down, laying her head upon her paws. She snapped her jaws lazily as Sylvanna fed her pieces of dried meat, exhaustion settling upon her in the wake of Sylvanna's rejuvenating spells.

They both ate in silence, Morrigan unable to speak in her wolf's coat. After the meal, it seemed only natural that she should creep closer and lay her head in Sylvanna's lap.

Sylvanna stroked her forehead. Morrigan let her eyes close shut, pressing her nose into Sylvanna's palm.

"Thank you," Sylvanna said quietly. "For trying."

Morrigan pricked her ears to show that she was listening.

"I knew it was foolish, but I had to try." Sylvanna ran her hand over Morrigan's belly, burying her fingers in the coarse fur. Morrigan shivered and yawned once more, her jaws stretching wide open.

"I still remember the first time I saw you change. Alistair was so surprised, I think he almost wet his smalls." She giggled, and Morrigan chuffed. The change back had been equally amusing, as if the boy had never before gazed upon a nude woman.

"It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen." Sylvanna's hand stilled. "I wanted so much to have what you had in that moment. To feel what you felt. To soar above everything, weightless-" Sylvanna sighed, the heavy, lonely sigh of a girl who had spent half her life locked in a tower.

Morrigan whined softly. She had helped Sylvanna as best she could, but such abilities could not be forced. It was unlikely they would ever have the chance to try again.

The silence stretched between them, but it was easy; comfortable, even after all this time. Something popped in the fire, and Morrigan flicked an ear towards it, her eyes growing heavy. 

"I don't fault her," Sylvanna said, breaking the quiet. "Even now. Little dragons grow up to bear monstrous appetites."

Morrigan stirred as though to change, but the hand on her neck bade her be still.

"She gave me everything I'd ever wished for. The house. A child." She breathed in. "... You."

Sylvanna scratched behind her ears. She leant closer; Morrigan could smell the trace of meat on her lips, overwhelmed by the strong perfume she wore, fading in the star-filled night. There was something else, beneath - the taint, of course, but also something - something other. It evoked dark, dingy caverns, the warm wet press of pulsing flesh underfoot-

Morrigan inhaled sharply. She knew that smell.

"I love you," Sylvanna whispered. "I love you so much." A droplet splashed against Morrigan's nose, and she yelped in surprise as Sylvanna's arms tightened around her, a rush of magic overwhelming her senses. She snapped her teeth, jaws seeking to close around those treacherous, spell-weaving hands, but it was too late. Darkness filled her vision, her body failing her as it slid, inexorably towards sleep.

When she woke, Sylvanna was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to interesting2125, miralinda, mutive, My Sweet Lenore, oftenindecisive, roxfox1962, ScOut4It, Spikesagitta and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
> 
> In case anyone missed it, there's a very useful Fereldan distances chart on SiB by milia_timmain (http://swooping-is-bad.livejournal.com/810110.html). However, since the warden's armies march from Redcliffe to Denerim in like two days, I'm guessing there's a minor wormhole in the middle of the Bannorn that spits people out across the other side of the country in seconds.
> 
> The framing of this last scene was definitely influenced by the adorable wolf!Morrigan/f!warden friendship moments in Jade Sabre's Domestication and Arsinoe de Blassenville's The Keening Blade (the latter also convinced me that Anders/Morrigan can be a delightfully sweet OTP.)


	45. The Old God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Run, don't walk, to read Noah Sila's Meredith/f!diplo!mage!Hawke WIP, [Interstices.](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7235078/1/Interstices) It's like the fic I always wanted to read ever since playing DA2. 
> 
> With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, juri and sqbr for the plot advice, and with apologies to Rodgers &amp; Hammerstein.

** Recap - Alistair, Ishantha - chapter 43 **

_To the tune of 'Maria' from _The Sound of Music

[The Bannorn]

Alistair:  
My army's lost at grievous cost  
My country's in a bind  
I never asked to be a king  
Why can't I just resign?  
The Bannorn keeps on rebelling  
And the arls are so unkind  
I would've been much happier as a warden

Now the Chantry's losing followers  
And Eleanor is gone  
I'm stealing all the horses  
To ride off into the dawn  
There's nothing else to do  
But to await my monstrous spawn  
Let's take bets I won't regret this come the ending

Morrigan:  
A child cannot control such force divine  
Her power shall soon be mine!

Alistair:  
How do you solve a problem like an Old God?  
How do you ensure Her soul remains deceased?  
How do you find the words to mean an Old God?

Morrigan:  
Infinite power!

Alistair:  
Unparallelled disaster!

Sylvanna:  
A beast!

Alistair:  
Many a time you know you'd like to kill Her  
Many a templar died at Her command

Morrigan:  
But how do you steal Her soul  
And fulfil your fated role?  
How do you cast a spell She'll not withstand?

Alistair:  
Oh, how do you solve a problem like an Old God?  
How do you ameliorate Her evil plans?

[Somewhere near a lake]

Alistair: If I surrender, will it stop the singing?

Ishantha: Yes.

Alistair: *ditches Avernus' ward*

* * *

**The Bannorn**

"Hello, Father."

Alistair inclined his head. The child looked nothing like her mother, but that was not entirely unexpected. Reports from Redcliffe had suggested she could change her appearance at will. Blonde curls tumbled to her shoulders, her nose straight and narrow in the Theirin way. Despite the morning frost, her cheeks were warm and flushed, as though she had just run a mile.

Her eyes betrayed her. They were a human shade of blue, but within he could see flecks of gold and green, something more than just his reflection staring back at him. Something ancient. Something terrible.

"You are alone," she said, taking a step closer. His throat tightened, but he stood his ground. "Where are your friends? Your grey wardens?"

Her walk was all Morrigan, all sway and moments of predatory stillness, though her hips were as narrow as a boy's. Alistair wondered what else she had learnt from her mother. How much did she know about her origins?

"Yes," he said, watching her eyes as they tracked over him. "I thought it best."

She tilted her head to the side, the very picture of an inquisitive wren... or a dragon. "You are not quite as stupid as Mother claimed you would be."

"I'm so very glad you approve."

She laughed, and the world seemed to laugh with her, a breeze rising over the water and raising a susurrus through the reeds. There was so much light in her smile, yet no warmth, like the brightness of a vast and barren field of ice. "Walk with me," she commanded.

They circled the lake in silence, frost crunching underfoot. He stole sideways glances at her, unable to help himself. She had dressed herself in the manner of a maiden grown, long skirts and sleeves dipping near to the ground. Despite the cold, she had forsaken a cloak, an abundance of gold and jewels glinting at her neck.

She stopped them when they had reached the far side of the lake, sinking into a sitting position against the frozen ground. Alistair followed suit far less gracefully, his plate biting uncomfortably at the joints.

"You did not run from me, nor try to hide." She pursed her lips and considered him. "Lesser men might call that foolish."

"I've been called worse." Morrigan, in particular, had gone out of her way to invent new insults just for him. "Names don't bother me any more."

"Very wise." She stared at him, eyes shifting so that for a moment, they seemed more gold than blue. She tapped his armour, a finger brushing his tabard where he had attached Avernus' ward. "You must want something from me." She raised a brow. "A bargain. Am I correct?"

He gently plucked her hand from his chest, lowering it to her side. _Eleanor_, his heart screamed at him. He wanted nothing more than to know that she was safe, that she was well, but he held his tongue. Speaking of Eleanor now could do her far more harm than good. Instead, he smiled his most charming, kingly smile. "It's been ten years. I'd rather learn about you."

He had thought her previous smile had been proof enough of her divinity, but this one was more radiant by far. When she grinned, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, the aura around her so dazzling that he had to look away.

"There's so much to tell you." She lowered her eyes shyly, peeking at him through her lashes. "I'm not sure where to begin."

Morrigan and Flemeth must have been planning her birth for years, possibly centuries in Flemeth's case. Urthemiel's origins dated back even earlier, before King Calenhad, before Ferelden, before the Alamarri. The Maker only knew what had truly happened, at the beginning of everything.

"Begin wherever you like." Alistair smiled encouragingly, forcing the muscles of his cheeks to relax.

She turned from him to prod at the ice melting at the edges of the lake, breaking off tiny floating islands and flicking them across the surface of the water. The dawn had well and truly broken, sunlight spilling through the clouds. Alistair drank in the sight.

"I killed all your templars," she said eventually. "All the ones I could find, at any rate."

"That must have been unpleasant. Blood leaves such terrible stains, doesn't it?"

"I left Arl Teagan alive." She settled her hands back in her lap, fingertips blanched from the cold. "Was that right? You killed his brother, after all."

Alistair winced. "Teagan is a good man."

"Oh." She leant towards him, speaking with a gravity beyond her years. "If I've learnt anything, Father, it's that goodness is subjective."

Alistair stared at her. She was not a little girl, he reminded himself. Even if she were, she remained Morrigan's child through and through. Blonde curls or not, she had butchered hundreds of men and women who had thought only to defend the Chantry and their homelands - and for what? A chance to rule them, as the Imperium had once ruled?

"You must hate me," she whispered, her lip quivering as though she was about to cry.

"I don't." Even now, he wondered if it was true. She had killed thousands without a qualm and enslaved hundreds more. He looked at her small fingers, entwined in her lap, and tried to imagine the blood of her victims staining her hands.

It was a losing battle.

"Mother hates me," she sniffled. "Both of them. They drove me away. They wouldn't help." She looked up at him, her eyes reddened. "You'll make them see, won't you? You'll make them understand?"

"Understand what?" he asked cautiously. It was a good sign if she was estranged from Morrigan and Sylvanna. He resisted the urge to glance around and check whether the mages were hiding in the bushes somewhere, ready to strike when he least expected them.

"Blood belongs with blood. Family should stay together," she said. "Wouldn't you agree?"

He had seen that look before, that hungry, searching gaze. Avernus had worn the same expression when talking about his experiments.

Family was such a strange thing. He had mourned Duncan as though he were kin, and yet it was Maric's spectre that haunted him in his later years: Maric the Victorious, Maric the Saviour. The comparisons had been inevitable. Alistair was not as charismatic as Cailan, nor as diplomatic as Maric; not as worthy of the Theirin legacy. The fact that he had barely known either of them seemed to be irrelevant.

Perspective had only come with his advancing years. Morrigan's child was barely ten. At that age, he had longed desperately, foolishly, for someone to acknowledge him; to tell him it was all a mistake, that he had loving parents somewhere who'd been forced to give him up for some reason (war, relentless Antivan assassins, Maker, even being a half-blood would've been better than being a bastard).

Such dreams had faded the day Eamon told him who his parents truly were, and why Alistair would never see either of them.

Did Old Gods dream?

"Family should help each other," Alistair said. "That's why I'm here."

The tears vanished as swiftly as they had appeared. He wondered if that trick had ever worked on Morrigan. She didn't seem the sort to fall for sobs and whining, but perhaps she had mellowed in her old age.

The child clambered to her feet. The ground was uneven and rocky, and Alistair stood to offer his arm. She latched on like a limpet to steady herself, then released him to lean down and pick up a pebble from the shore.

"What were you doing?" she asked. "Before I came. That thing with the rock on the water."

He glanced at the stone in her hand. It was asymmetrical and too small for her needs. He scanned the ground, finding a couple of more suitable candidates: round and flat, evenly polished by water and time.

"Here," he said, passing one to her. "You give it a little spin when you throw it, so it bounces on the water instead of sinking. See?"

He wriggled his hand out of his gauntlet before throwing one. They watched it sail through the air before skipping twice across the lake. A few bubbles made their way to the surface when it sank, and she stared at that spot intently before turning to face him.

"That's it?"

He shrugged. "I... guess? The most skips wins."

Her nose wrinkled. "What's the point?"

It had been a pleasant enough pastime, running along the shores of Lake Calenhad, breeches hitched up over the knee, feet bare and muddy. In spring, the winds gusting across the lake made the game more interesting. Connor had just been born, and the entire arling had been celebrating. Alistair had wagered his serve of nameday pudding that he could beat Fat Tom in three rounds out of five. That evening, licking the double helping of pastry from his fingers, had been one of the happiest memories of his childhood.

"I suppose there's not really a point."

She rolled one of the stones between her fingertips, looking at it thoughtfully. Eventually she pulled her arm back and threw the pebble over the water. It sank on impact with nothing more than a quiet splish.

Alistair found her another stone, carefully arranging her fingers over its smooth planes. "Here. Nice and relaxed. When you release, don't forget to give it a little flick to make it spin."

He watched her trying again. And again. And again.

She snatched the next stone from his grasp and threw it to the ground, her face screwing up in frustration. "It doesn't work," she whined. "This is a stupid game."

Alistair suppressed a sigh. "You're doing well," he lied, finding himself another missile. "It just takes a little time is all, see?" He threw the stone, which bounced four times across the water before finally sinking.

She picked up another pebble without prompting. When she drew her arm back, the stone caught alight, trailing flames as it sailed up and up and then down in a wide arc. A huge plume of water erupted when it finally hit the lake, disturbing several birds that had waded out into the shallows.

The child grinned. "I win!"

Alistair thought he could see the pale white bellies of dead fish rising to the surface where the plume had just dissipated. A few of the braver birds dared to venture back, and soon there was a distant squawking over the parboiled flesh.

"You win," Alistair agreed. The concession seemed to please her, so he kept his qualifying 'for now' to himself. He hadn't even felt her accessing the Fade. Was that how magic worked in its most unadulterated form? How could anyone defend against that?

"I always win," she said, triumphant and unbearably smug.

And therein lay the problem.

Alistair had met enough noble children to know that being raised to think oneself invincible led to all sorts of complications later on. Playing well with others did not come naturally to those unused to sharing, or conceding defeat.

Morrigan likely had no issues with her little darling growing up to be a monster. After all, Morrigan herself had scorned anyone who disagreed with her opinions, no matter how ridiculous they had been.

Perhaps that was unfair. Teaching humility to an ancient power was probably not quite as simple as giving her a lecture each time she slaughtered some poor sod.

"You must have been very lonely, growing up," Alistair prompted. "Morrigan must have kept you well hidden from the darkspawn and the Chantry."

She frowned, and kicked a stone, scuffing her boot in the process. "She was keeping me safe."

Maric had probably hoped that sending Alistair away would keep Cailan safe. Too many royal bastards had become fratricides in the name of power. If Maric had truly been as good and honourable as the legends said, then the decision must have cut him to the core. How else could he have borne the separation from one of his own, if not to protect the other?

"It must have been boring without any other children around. Were you happy to find you had a little sister?"

She scowled, then masked it with a smile that ended up looking more like a grimace. "I suppose. She's just so - tedious. And she cries all the time."

Alistair did his best to ignore the urge to wrap his hands around her throat and demand the safe return of his daughter. Instead, he forced himself to continue talking, keeping his tone light. Easy. He could do this.

"It's a shame you're spending winter at Redcliffe," he continued. "I know how drafty and cold it gets. The arlessa would always complain about wanting to spend winter in her native Orlais."

She looked uncertain. "Is it warmer in Orlais?"

Alistair adopted a look of utter amazement. "You've never been to Montsimmard? Never seen Val Royeaux in spring?"

It took a second for her to respond, the colours of her eyes shifting, pupils momentarily slitted before reshaping to their normal form. "No."

He gasped theatrically. "What has Morrigan been doing with you? It's simply a crime not to see the world. An ancient power like yourself should get to know her subjects, travel, see the sights..."

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "You're mocking me."

He held up his palm. "Am not. I swear it on the soul of my mother."

Her sceptical expression remained. "I told Mother I wanted to see Tevinter," she muttered.

He latched onto the opening like a mabari with a fresh haunch of venison. "And what did Morrigan tell you?"

"She left me to chase the warden."

It was a bit more information that he would have otherwise wanted, but it would do. "Exactly! When has Morrigan ever put your needs ahead of her own? How often does she choose to spend time with her lover instead of you?"

She considered him in complete, unblinking silence. Despite the frosty morning, Alistair felt a bead of sweat sliding down his back.

"What do you want from me, Father?"

He took a deep breath. He had to make this count; if he got this wrong, she would likely incinerate him on the spot, and who knew where that would leave Eleanor? "You've demonstrated to the Chantry and the rest of Thedas what you can do. By now, all our neighbours must've heard about what happened at Redcliffe, amplified by hearsay, of course. People like to exaggerate, especially when they're drunk. Not that I would know anything about that. Anyway..."

At her unsmiling stare, he coughed and moved on. "You should take advantage of your reputation. If you want to strike at the heart of the Chantry, now is the time."

She quirked a brow. "And if I don't?

"Then you should at least see the world. People in Rivain and beyond still think you're a myth, and Weisshaupt has done nothing to move against you. Why spend all your childhood in a rural backwater like Ferelden?"

He gestured to the empty lake behind them; the copse of evergreens and trembling, silvery reeds; the utter lack of civilisation for miles around. "If you'd moved in autumn, you could've been in Val Royeaux right now, redecorating the Grand Cathedral in whatever colours you wished. The Divine could be dead or exiled, but she's not - and what is she doing, instead?" He leant closer to her. "Raising more followers to oppose you. Creating more templars, ordaining more Revered Mothers. Is that what you want?"

She bit her lip. Her eyes really were rather pretty, despite the occasional flashes of reptilian gold. "I could kill her next year," she supposed. "Or in a decade or so. Time doesn't really matter-"

"Yes it does," Alistair snapped. "I know about the talking darkspawn. I've read the reports. How long do you suppose it'll take them to find one of your brothers and corrupt him, too? That can't be what you want."

The Chantry was somewhat vague on the relationships between the Old Gods, but even if the child cared nothing for Razikale and Lusacan, the threat of another Blight had to be enough to make her pause.

"Apart from grey wardens, no one cares about darkspawn when there's not a Blight," Alistair said. "If you were in charge of things, you could ensure that the darkspawn never raised another archdemon again." How that could be achieved was another matter, but perhaps her powers could make it possible.

She mulled this over for a minute or two. The sun peeked out from behind a mass of cloud cover, glinting on the lake and momentarily blinding him. Alistair shielded his eyes and glanced back to find her looking up at him expectantly.

"You want me to leave Ferelden."

There was no point in hiding his intentions. "Consider it an expansion into warmer and nicer climes - but yes. I want you to relinquish your hold on Ferelden and all her people. Forever."

She raised her brows at his last word. "For one of my kind, forever is a very long time. What do you offer in return?"

He took a deep breath. Now was the moment where he learnt whether his proposal was simply the height of arrogance, a gross misjudgement of her goals and desires, or if he could buy Eleanor and his country a few more years of borrowed time.

"Me," Alistair said. "I will be the father you never had. I will celebrate your namedays, build snow elves with you at Wintersend. I will be your general, your commander of arms. I will even-" and here he paused for dramatic effect - "take your side whenever your mothers disagree with you."

She froze. She wore an expression of mistrust and naked hope, gone as soon as it had appeared. "What makes you think I desire your presence?"

He adopted his best injured puppy look. "Why wouldn't you want me around?" He counted off his attributes on his fingers. "I'm charming, good with swords and killing people who don't like you, and more importantly, I can drain a mage at twenty seven yards without raising a sweat. Great for those inconvenient times when your mother is being a bit too liberal with the disciplinary fireballs."

She wrinkled her nose. "Mother said you were a bit like a lapdog. Always yapping away. Needy."

"And you? What do you think?"

"I think you presume a great deal. Why shouldn't I simply command you to stay with me? Why should I relinquish an entire country?"

He sighed. "Because you know it wouldn't be the same. You can't command someone to love you."

She raised her brows. "Can't I?" She pursed her lips, and considered him. Alistair felt his eyes glazing over, and he blinked, hard, to stop the feeling of his brain dribbling out from his ears.

She glanced away, and the feeling lessened somewhat, but did not diminish. He placed a hand on her shoulder, feeling her flinch as he did so.

"It's not the same," he repeated. "How can something taken by force be equal in value to something freely given?"

He had to strain to hear her next words.

"It's worked before," she muttered. "For a time."

He crouched down to be more or less at eye level with her. "Blood is important," he repeated. "You won't have another father in this lifespan, I'm afraid. You're kind of stuck with me."

That made her laugh, but still she would not look at him. Instead, she stared blindly across the lake, the sun throwing her shadow before him. "You must love Eleanor very much."

Who could not adore her? Eleanor was nothing like his other daughter, this strange, unlovely dragon child with her shifting eyes and pitiless heart. The Maker had the right of it. Gods no longer belonged in this world; not the elven gods, not the Old Gods.

"Yes," he said. "I love her."

"You will never see her again," she warned. "It will be as if she were dead and gone, and Ferelden gone with her."

He could not even remember his last words to Eleanor. Even now, details were proving elusive - was that freckle on her right arm, or her left? In five years, it was doubtful he would even recognise her, were they to meet.

"I know."

"Perhaps you are as stupid as Mother claimed." The child shook her head. "What should I do with you?"

"Leave Ferelden be. I'm telling you, the country's overrated. We don't even have proper plumbing. What more can it offer you?"

Ferelden needed time without Urthemiel's suffocating presence. There had to be some way to let Eleanor grow to womanhood without being mind-controlled into some kind of slavish drone, forever robbed of her own identity.

The child eyed him as if he were a slab of meat at a market. "Boundaries change and the borders of countries are ever fluid. When I first walked your world, Calenhad's land was yet to be discovered." She paused. "I will leave this country alone, as long as you are breathing. While you are with me, it will be as if it never existed. Will that suffice?"

He hadn't expected her to concede eternity, but basing a contract on his own life seemed like a very bad idea. "And have you or Morrigan kill me when you get bored of our arrangement? No thanks."

"What use are you to me dead?" She frowned. "Mother can be difficult. We'll have to do something about her." She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, and a shiver ran across his skin. "And the taint. We can't let that burn away unchecked now, can we?"

As though from far away, he heard the long, breathy note of a piper's tune, cascading into melody. He strained to hear more, but the snippet of song vanished as soon as it had begun. His skin tingled slightly, but nothing else seemed to have happened.

She stepped back from him. "I'll give you a hundred years, Alistair Theirin. If you haven't convinced me by the end of it to leave your backwater in peace, then we'll return here, together, and see what can be made of your people."

She spoke as though she expected him to be alive by the end of it, but his own life was not his most pressing concern. "You can't expect me to believe you'll actually-"

"You can do whatever you wish." She folded her arms across her chest and shrugged. "A hundred years of devotion, freely given, or we can forget our arrangement entirely and you can leave Ferelden in my hands." She smiled. It was not a particularly nice smile.

"You won't decimate it from afar? Infiltrate its borders with pestilent hordes of werewolves?"

"Where would I find hordes of werewolves?" Her brow creased into a frown. "You are a very strange man."

"So I've been told."

She tilted her head to the side. Her eyes were back to normal, a pale, piercing blue. "A hundred years it is, then?"

A century of watching her claim Thedas piece by piece. A century of not knowing whether Eleanor and any of her future descendants lived, if the Guerrins would ever recover from the Old God's machinations. A century of sending innocents to their deaths or worse.

If she spared Eleanor, it was a small price to pay.

Alistair extended his hand, palm up. "A hundred years - during which time you'll not return to Ferelden, nor harm the land nor those within her borders by direct or indirect means."

She placed her hand within his, and he closed his fingers around her slender wrist. He could feel the beat of her pulse beneath her skin, the shifting muscle as her fingers curled.

"Very well. I accept your terms."

Eleanor would probably never forgive him, but at least now she would be safe for the next few decades. Alistair gritted his teeth in a smile as dazzling as any suit of arms.

_Maker, let her be safe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With many thanks to interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, My Sweet Lenore, often indecisive, roxfox1962, ScOut4It, Spikesagitta and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
> 
> I expect to wrap up the rest of this fic within the next fortnight or so. Finally :)


	46. First Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm an absolute sucker for Morrigan/f!warden friendship fics, and in particular I love the resolution of Jessica Jones' Wakeful For Her Sake. I wish it were canon. http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7213504
> 
> With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - Morrigan, Sylvanna, Anders - chapter 44 **

[Redcliffe]

Morrigan: Perhaps something might be salvageable after all. Something like an eternal, divine soul.

Sylvanna: Are you talking to yourself again? Whatever, just look at this blood.

[Miles away...]

Anders: Ooh, a quaint village. Let me prance around saying its name loudly several times.

[Redcliffe]

Sylvanna: I have a brilliant idea.

Morrigan: Spare me.

Sylvanna: No no, it's really good! How about we do that thing that we did at the start of that other thing, except this time it'll work and we'll totally reach your evil daughter before she ends the world or something stupid?

Morrigan: What?

Sylvanna: I can haz shapeshifting speciality plz?

Morrigan: Oh, very well.

[Later]

*Speciality failed*

Morrigan: I won't say 'I told you so'. (I told you so.)

Sylvanna: ...

[Somewhere in southern Ferelden]

Sylvanna: I love you. I need you to hear that before the proverbial hits the fan. Also, I've crossed the darkspawn bridge into ghoul territory. If you'd been paying attention you would've noticed sooner. Now go the fuck to sleep.

Morrigan: A ghoul? But-

Sylvanna: Sleep.

* * *

**The Bannorn**

Sylvanna watched Morrigan as she slept. Unconscious, Morrigan's body had reverted to human form, moonlight spilling over her pale shoulders, breasts rising and falling with each breath. Sylvanna tugged off a glove and flexed her fingers, running them through Morrigan's hair, the smooth, yielding texture so unlike the woman herself. She traced a cheek, brushed pursed lips. In sleep, Morrigan remained so still, so perfect.

A cloud scudded past the moon, the light revealing the mottled appearance of Sylvanna's skin, dark blemishes spreading across the back of her hand. She drew back as though stung, fumbling to replace her glove. Still Morrigan slept.

A spell slipped to the forefront of her mind, the all-too-familiar tingle of energy beginning to coalesce at her fingertips. She imagined hearing the cessation of breath, the resounding silence that would follow. It would be so easy...

She clenched her hand into a fist. Nothing happened. After all that had transpired, despite all her reasons - she could not. Would not.

Instead, she found herself covering Morrigan's body with blankets and cloaks, setting out clothing, shoes and food well within reach. After a moment's thought, she strengthened the wards around the camp; no wild animal or passing sellsword would claim the death she had denied herself.

With that accomplished, she repacked the rest of their equipment, renewed the charms upon her palfrey, and fled as quickly as her spells and her horse would allow.

.

.

.

The palfrey collapsed beneath her at the break of day. Sylvanna dismounted, observing it as it flailed, eyes rolling back to show the whites. She had miscalculated. Still enthralled by her magic, its heart pumped faster than nature had ever intended, its short, sharp breaths barely adequate to meet the demands of its body. Sylvanna had tried her best to counter the effect with multiple rejuvenations and soothing words, but to no avail.

She bent down, careful to avoid the struggling limbs, and retrieved her satchel, looping its straps over her shoulder. She turned to leave, then paused. The horse drew back its lips in a wordless plea, blood dribbling down from the corner of its mouth. Sylvanna raised a hand. Truly, she could not spare the mana, but neither could she walk away.

As though independent from her thoughts, lightning arced from her hand, granting the only mercy she had left to dispense. The horse's limbs twitched, then stilled forever. Sylvanna inhaled. The smell of burning meat brought with it a flood of memories: cool, damp tunnels; the sound of dripping water; faces leering in the dark. She shuddered to find her mouth watering, the urge to consume and devour almost overwhelming.

She fell to her knees and retched, her stomach purging its meagre contents. Knots of hair fell out as she held back the fringe from her face, and she stared at the strands in her palm, unseeing, until the distant sound of conversation scattered her thoughts.

She rose to her feet, tugging her hood low over her face, and sniffed the air. Two... no, three grey wardens. And She was already with them, somewhere beyond the horizon.

Her hunger forgotten, Sylvanna began to walk, then to run, the end drawing nearer with each step.

.

.

.

"He has to be here somewhere," Anders muttered, adjusting the telescope. Beside him, Guillaume paced impatiently, finally snatching the instrument from his grasp. "Hey!"

"Idiot son of a whore. In Orlais, a king would never behave in such a manner."

Anders was almost tempted to agree. Alistair running away by himself was a pretty stupid move. Providing that was what had happened, anyway - His Majesty might've just been answering a call of nature. Which had somehow required the use of all their horses and supplies. When he put it like that, Anders had to admit it sounded a little far-fetched.

"Andraste's flaming sword!" Guillaume lowered the scope, then raised it again.

Anders peered into the distance. "Did you find him? What is it? Let me see!"

Guillaume passed him the scope in silence. Anders fiddled with the device, finally finding what Guillaume had seen: yes, it could well be Alistair, with the blond head, broad shoulders and shiny plate. His Majesty was turned to one side. Anders shifted the scope to see what he was looking at.

Oh.

Was that Her?

Anders squinted. He'd assumed She would be taller. She turned away from Alistair, glancing south in Anders' direction. No. Could She see him from this distance?

Anders clung to the scope, frozen in place. His eyesight was good, but not that good - maybe he had been mistaken; perhaps it was mere coincidence, a freak chance that She had turned Her head at the exact same moment he had laid eyes on Her.

A branch snapped behind him, and he dropped the scope, fumbling to catch it before it rolled away into the brush. "Did She look at you too?" he babbled, turning to Guillaume-

Who wasn't there.

Instead, he found himself facing a cloaked figure, features indistinguishable beneath a lowered hood. His - her - blood sang to him of the taint, thrumming like the sound of falling water. Speaking of the taint, where was Guillaume?

Anders summoned a burst of fire, the flame erupting from his upturned palm. "One step closer and I'll roast you like a nug on a spit. Don't think I won't!"

A chuckle echoed from behind the cloak. "Anders. So nice to see you again, too." The warden raised a pair of gloved hands, lowering her hood.

It took Anders several minutes to place the voice, the face. He gaped. "You?" he blurted out. "You look terrible." The words were spoken before his brain had caught up with his mouth. It was true enough, though. The woman standing before him looked nothing like the gangly, blushing apprentice he had remembered. Her eyes were prematurely lined and shadowed, cheeks gaunt, lips grim and unsmiling despite her words of welcome. Honestly, if it hadn't been for the taint, and the reputation preceding her, Anders wouldn't have recognised her at all.

"I know." The Hero of Ferelden stepped towards him. Anders resisted the impulse to take a step back. Wasn't she one of the bad guys? Shouldn't they be exchanging lightning bolts instead of pleasantries?

"You never returned my message," he accused. "At the siege."

"You're bringing that up now?" She passed a hand over her eyes. "Anders, we don't have much time. I need you to understand-"

Anders was only half-listening, paying greater attention to a flicker of movement at the periphery of his vision. "Duck!" he yelled, pushing her forwards and simultaneously casting, the mana flowing from him like water down a stream. Light flared around them both, encasing them in flickering bubbles. Not a minute too soon, either - entropic energy crashed over and past them, pressing harmlessly against their shields.

"Maker's oath!" Surana gasped, climbing to her feet. Anders followed her gaze towards the mage who had attacked them, the newcomer making no attempt to conceal her presence. He found himself gawking even as he readied another defensive spell. The mage was undeniably beautiful, dark hair cascading over full breasts, hips simply yearning for a lover's touch. She was also incredibly pissed off, judging by the thunderous expression clouding her face.

So that was what Alistair had been missing all these years. Her legend proceeded her: daughter of Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds, maleficar and mother to the Child God Herself. Anders sighed and smirked despite the circumstances. "Still with an eye for the ladies, Surana?"

The warden didn't spare him a second glance. "Shut up." Her hands glowed, wreathed with blue fire.

"I really should be going," Anders said as he backed away, scanning the horizon for Guillaume, who remained nowhere to be seen. Surana gestured without turning, and he stumbled, almost falling, legs rooted in place as though held by invisible bonds. Trying to pull out one leg, then the other, only appeared to mire him further. "No fair," he whined. "I shielded you!"

The women only had eyes for each other. Typical.

.

.

.

Magic prickled across Morrigan's skin, threatening to spill from her in waves, restrained only by sheer force of will. It would have been better - more prudent - to take Sylvanna unawares; a healer forewarned was like a cat with nine lives. It was too late now to regret her impetuous actions. She had no room left for patience, for pity; she would end this here and end this now, and never, ever, find herself betrayed again.

"All this time I listened to you, drinking in your lies, your empty promises. All this time and you were allied with them - with the darkspawn! Your sworn enemy!"

Sylvanna spread her hands in a patronising manner. "I lied to you, yes. But my reasons-"

Morrigan reached her in six more steps, long strides making short work of the distance between them. "I no longer care about your reasons," she hissed, voice dangerously soft. Sylvanna remained still, making no effort to defend herself. Was that pride? Or ignorance? Did she imagine that her companion would save her from another attack? What game was she playing now?

Morrigan moved, the shield around Sylvanna bursting with an audible pop as she thrust her hand through the barrier, wrapping it around Sylvanna's throat. She was leaking pure magic, but she barely registered the loss, focusing all her strength on maintaining her grip. Tendrils of dark smoke oozed between her fingers, encircling Sylvanna's face and covering her nose and mouth, and still Sylvanna did not move, did not even struggle.

Morrigan willed her hand to tighten even further. _Die_, she chanted silently, searching Sylvanna's expression for the slightest hint of fear. She squeezed and squeezed until the smoke grew so thick, she could barely see her fingers. Sylvanna's gaze never wavered, never changed, her eyes pale blue mirrors offering Morrigan nothing at all.

Then Morrigan felt it: a sticky warmth welling up beneath her heart. She glanced down. Blood poured from her, soaking through her robe - her blood. Against her belly, Sylvanna's palm rested, the touch as light as a caress.

Morrigan snarled and threw Sylvanna to one side, pressing her hands over her abdomen. It seemed she was bleeding through her pores, no single injury causing her life to flow from her in a torrent. She needed blood. Her eyes scanned between Sylvanna, doubled over and gasping for breath, and the other mage, still immobilised by whatever holding spell Sylvanna had cast upon him. Taking blood from Sylvanna, whilst satisfying, was too risky; whatever the darkspawn had done to her - whatever she had become, Morrigan wanted none of it. That left only the man.

Morrigan sucked the life from him, parting her lips to let it fill her, complete her, warm and sweet as desire. Vaguely, she heard him moan in agony, but dared not stop, not when she saw Sylvanna rising to her feet, shaky and halting as a newborn lamb. She could not allow him to live and possibly ally with Sylvanna against her; she had come too far-

A streak of orange flashed across her vision, and her connection with the mage broke, knocking her to the ground and leaving her breathless and aching. She raised her head to face this new threat, eyes widening in recognition.

The demon.

It slunk to its master's side, hair standing on end, lips drawn back in a snarl. She spat blood and cursed, slowly moving to her feet, her fingertips dripping crimson. The mage was stirring, seemingly no worse for wear, though he groaned like a newly risen corpse.

Morrigan was contemplating the odds of killing Sylvanna without interference, when all of them - Sylvanna, the mage and his demon - suddenly turned to stare at a point just beyond the horizon, each of them frozen in place as though compelled by some higher being.

A moment later, Morrigan heard it - no, felt it. The sound of her daughter, screaming. The sheer force of it pressed her to her knees, a wave of agony so intense she would have sawn off her own limbs to make it stop, if only she could move. Vaguely, she became aware that she too was screaming, adding her voice to the overwhelmingly high, girlish shriek that went on and on and on.

Just when consciousness threatened to recede, the sound stopped, the ensuing silence almost deafening. For long moments Morrigan was unable to do more than simply catch her breath, gulping down deep, shuddering lungfuls of air until her vision cleared and her body seemed to be her own again.

She met Sylvanna's gaze, blue eyes red-rimmed and piercing, and in that moment knew precisely what Sylvanna intended to do, why she needed Anders' assistance, and what would happen if Morrigan allowed her to continue unchecked.

"No," she whispered, stretching out her hand. Power followed, ripples surging through the space between them. The air around Sylvanna blurred and flickered just before the spell reached her, and in the next moment, she was merely a speck on the horizon, moving almost faster than the eye could follow.

Morrigan screamed, a wordless shriek of fear and rage. She could travel quickest in flight, but gaining sufficient altitude would take more time than she could spare. Her child's soul was in danger.

A tell-tale shimmer surrounded Anders and his demon, and she saw her chance. Racing towards the mage, she latched onto his arm, nails digging deep into his skin.

"Hey!" he complained, trying to shake her off, but she would not be deterred.

The demon finished its spell, the ground literally falling away from them. Morrigan's stomach lurched and dropped, air whipping past her face, the landscape a blur of white and grey. The end came too soon and yet not soon enough, the sudden cessation of movement throwing both Morrigan and Anders off their feet.

She looked up, sweeping the hair from her face, and gasped.

She was too late.

.

.

.

Guillaume crept forwards, one inch at a time, each movement precise and silent. Avernus' charm ought to render him invisible to the false god's senses, but such a thing was of no use if he clomped around like a bronto with an itch.

So far, his caution had paid off. No one seemed to notice his presence, close as he was. Alistair seemed weary, but otherwise unharmed. The false god was not... what he had expected. He had imagined feeling some kind of evil presence radiating from her, like the sensation of standing amidst a darkspawn horde. Instead, she looked more or less like a normal little girl, though there was perhaps something in her expression that alluded to more.

"A hundred years-" Alistair said, extending his hand. Guillaume stifled his breath of shock, forcing himself to remain absolutely still. He must have misheard. The King of Ferelden was not bargaining with this creature, surely?

"-during which time you'll not return to Ferelden, nor harm the land nor those within her borders by direct or indirect means," Alistair continued.

So he was a traitor. Guillaume glanced to the face of the false god, trying to read meaning from her pursed lips and glittering eyes. One did not bargain with demons, nor seek favours from corrupt spirits. Surely Alistair had to realise that no good could come of this? Whatever he had offered her in return, whatever she had promised - he would be the one to lose. And all of Thedas would suffer with him.

She stepped forwards. Beside the king, she looked so small, so fragile. Guillaume swallowed and hardened his heart to steel. She was so close, he could - he could-

His fingers tightened around his unsheathed dagger, then relaxed, his grip firm and steady. The blade had been coated generously with Avernus' concoction, a poison guaranteed to pierce even the most unholy armour.

She and Alistair joined hands, her back facing Guillaume. Her gaze rested on the king, all her concentration focused solely upon him. If Guillaume was ever going to act, it had to be now.

_Now_.

.

.

.

Her touch was electric, waves of approval washing over Alistair as he took her hand. The child met his smile, her grip strong enough to bruise, as though she intended never to release him.

Suddenly her hold loosened, eyes widening in confusion. He found himself wanting nothing more than to protect her, to soothe away her fright and horror.

"What-" he began, then followed her gaze downwards. Nestled within the folds of her dress, blood spread like a blossoming flower, creeping outwards through the pale fabric. From the centre, a finger's width of steel emerged, the tip oozing with some kind of viscous black fluid.

Alistair met Guillaume's gaze over her shoulder. Guillaume's expression never changed, not even when he withdrew his dagger, angling for another strike.

His daughter screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With thanks to interesting2125, Misdirection, mutive, My Sweet Lenore, Noah Sila, roxfox1962, Spikesagitta, and Zero-Vision for the reviews.


	47. Oblation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Bamftastik always manages to come up with the most amazing AUs:
> 
> No More Heroes: Loghain and the warden die without killing the archdemon. The responsibility of ending the Blight falls to those they leave behind. Awesome ensemble fic, complete. http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6720814/
> 
> Tainted: A Dragon Age zombie fic. WIP. So far, so true to the genre. http://www.fanfiction.net/s/7286862/
> 
> With many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

** Recap - ensemble - chapters 45, 46 **

[The Bannorn]

Alistair: I'm prepared to talk. And skip stones, apparently.

Ishantha: This game sucks. Let's discuss the remainder of your pitiful existence.

Alistair: When you put it like that, how could I refuse?

[Elsewhere]

Sylvanna: Should I kill Morrigan? Heads, yes. Tails, no.

Coin: _Heads_.

Sylvanna: Best of three?

Guillaume: Alistair and the false god, engaged in non-violent conversation. What could possibly go wrong?

Anders: Let me see! Let me see!

Sylvanna: Anders, I need you to-

Morrigan: Die!

Sylvanna: Ack!

Anders: I'm an innocent bystander! Don't get me involved in your domestics!

Ishantha: *screams*

Sylvanna: And that's my cue to- *vanishes*

[Previously]

Alistair: Leave Ferelden alone, and I'll come with you to raze Tevinter or whatever the hell it is you kids like to do these days.

Ishantha: This deal sucks for you. Overconfidence much?

Alistair: Poetic justice dictates that a hero will rise against you. It'll probably happen in my lifetime. What's there to lose?

Ishantha: Whatever, let's shake.

*They do*

Guillaume: *stabs the Old God*

Alistair: Where in the void did you come from?

Guillaume: Took ranks in master stealth. And you thought mages were overpowered.

Ishantha: Can we pay more attention to me, please? Look! I'm bleeding! And screaming! Kind of important here!

* * *

**The Bannorn**

Ishantha screamed, head rolling back, eyes burning with light as she poured all her rage, her anger and her pain into her Voice. It had been her first and most powerful weapon, used now without discrimination, the sound felling friend and foe alike.

Breathless, she sank to her knees, hands cradled around the wound at her heart. Her blood continued to flow over her palms, soaking through her dress and mingling with the poison spreading through her weak, mortal body. She hiccuped and sobbed, flesh uselessly trying to knit around the wound, her magic flaring and fading as though hitting an invisible barrier. What had he done to her?

Time slowed to nothing as she tried every conceivable means of protecting herself, every enchantment she had ever learnt, every trick to stem the bleeding and force herself to heal. She even tried stopping her own heart to prevent it from pumping away her life, but it was no use - she was losing too much, too fast.

She looked up to see Sylvanna crouching before her, the elf reaching out and stroking her hair as though she were still a babe in swaddling clothes. She leant forwards, grasping Sylvanna with both hands and flinching at the sight of her own blood.

"Mama, he hurt me," she whimpered, gasping as Sylvanna wreathed her with creation magic. It wouldn't work - of course it wouldn't work; she tried to form the words to say so, but they didn't come. If her own magic had failed to heal her, what hope was there for anyone else's?

Still, it lessened the pain a little; she breathed slightly easier, allowing Sylvanna to cradle her and murmur soft, mothering babble, her pain and her anguish momentarily forgotten. She glanced up, catching Sylvanna's gaze. The elf smiled, and suddenly, she knew what she had to do.

Everything would be all right.

.

.

.

Morrigan crawled to her knees, head spinning with vertigo. Beside her, the mage groaned and stirred; she ignored him and the demon both, searching for her child.

_HELP ME._

She shuddered at the sound of Ishantha's Voice, ears still aching from her ethereal scream. Glancing across, she froze to see Sylvanna kneeling in her place, beside her child, her glory, her triumph.

"No," she gasped, stumbling to her feet. She had to reach them - had to stop them, had to kill that treacherous elf before she ruined all Morrigan had planned for.

"_No_!"

.

.

.

Anders worked on getting his breath back, twitching his fingers to ensure they were all still intact. He had no idea that Pounce could do... whatever that was. Like flying, except more nauseating. "It would've been useful to know before," he said reproachfully. The cat eyed him with feline indifference.

Alistair and Guillaume were nowhere to be seen. There was only the girl, bleeding out and crying. That was... right, wasn't it? That was what Clarisse had died for? What they were here to do?

He hadn't expected her to be so human, though. Or to appear so young. The expression of shock on her face was the same look the experimental subject had given him, deep within the Architect's lair.

Anders took a step forwards, not sure yet whether he intended to heal her or fry her, when Sylvanna intervened. She cradled the child to her, murmuring in soft, soothing tones, too low for Anders to hear. He looked away from them, just in time to see Guillaume stumbling back towards the group, a bloodied dagger in his hand.

Then Anders heard the Call.

_HELP ME._

Wait, was the girl speaking to him? He looked down at the charm pinned to his robes. It glowed faintly, but its powers seemed to be waning in the presence of the Child God. He took another step, then another towards her, the echo of her scream still resonating in his mind. Yearning coiled within his chest, his mind focused only on one goal: to protect; to serve.

To sacrifice.

.

.

.

His daughter's scream lifted Alistair, plate and all, and tossed him more than twenty yards away. He landed heavily, lying still for a moment, completely winded.

By the time he clambered to his feet, the whole damn circus had arrived: his former companions, his former friend, his former... whatever Morrigan had been to him.

Guillaume staggered towards the girl, paying him no mind at all. Alistair's vision flickered and he lost sight of him, though Guillaume's intentions had been clear enough. He looked dubiously at his daughter, doubled over and crying. Did he want to stop Guillaume? Should he?

_HELP ME._

Alistair stumbled, almost falling as the Voice resonated inside his head, worming itself insidiously into his brain. It left him with a ringing migraine, but nothing more; he had endured worse in the sparring field.

Anders, on the other hand, looked like a man in a trace, his eyes blank and glassy. Alistair headed towards him, ignoring the stab of guilt as he turned his back on his daughter, and grabbed him by the arm. "Hey. Hey! Snap out of it!"

Anders raised his head to face him, no recognition showing in his expression. He reminded Alistair of the walking dead, devoid of consciousness, but not harmless, it seemed. Alistair stood in his path, an immovable force of muscle and plate, preventing Anders from reaching his goal.

Anders opened his mouth, eyes glowing an unnatural blue. Alistair reacted on instinct, releasing Anders to bring his hands together in a thunderous clap, a column of light striking the ground by their feet, the blast radiating outwards and passing harmlessly through him. The mage toppled over, the blue glow fading from his eyes as he slumped gracelessly into a pile.

A few steps away, Morrigan screamed and cursed Alistair in the same breath, doubling over and clawing at her throat. "You fool!" she snarled, her voice so raw the words were barely comprehensible. "Smite _her_! Stop her before she ruins everything!"

Morrigan gestured towards their daughter. A cloaked figure knelt before the Child God, hands outstretched towards the girl's face. Her hood fell back and he caught a glimpse of her nose, her scarred cheek. Sylvanna?

A pressure fell upon his arm, and Alistair whirled, almost striking Anders in doing so. Anders seemed more or less normal, no longer exuding light from his eye sockets. That had to be a good sign.

"Wait," Anders said. "Don't interrupt. I think I know what she's doing."

Alistair frowned, wishing he could say the same.

.

.

.

The impact of the false god's scream sent Guillaume careening backwards into the nearest tree. He came to his feet groggily, finding his bearings. His left blade had spun out of reach, some ten yards away, and he dared not retrieve it when his main dagger remained in his grasp. Already, the child had begun to scream again, but not the human, agonised wail from before - no, this was something different, and altogether more sinister. A cry of rage, of loss that pulled so keenly at his soul that he thought she might expire from despair alone.

Guillaume readied his blade, and headed towards the sound.

.

.

.

The first thing Sylvanna noticed was the blood. There was so much of it, pouring from the wound in Ishantha's chest, more blood than she would have thought possible for one little body to hold.

If only there were some other way...

Ishantha looked up at her, lips forming a plea, her eyes filled with tears.

_HELP ME_.

Sylvanna heard the words in her bones and through her blood, a Call as binding as no other could be. "I will help you," she promised, cupping her hands around the child's face. "I will heal you." Already the wound's edges were smoking; whatever poison had been used, it was potent enough to hurt a god.

"Let me help you."

Ishantha's eyes caught on hers. They were wide with fear, desperation taking over as she experienced true agony for the first time in her human body. She made her decision, as Sylvanna had hoped she would.

_YES_.

_I ACCEPT YOUR SACRIFICE._

There was a brief, intense sensation of pain, then vertigo, as if she were falling from a great height; air rushed past Sylvanna in a blur, images flashing by too quickly for her mind to comprehend.

Then, finally, there was nothing at all.

.

.

.

Ishantha tightened her hold on Sylvanna, lest she try and evade her grasp. The sting of poison rushing through her veins had dulled, her senses dimming, each passing moment draining a little more of her life away.

"Let me help you." Sylvanna looked so conciliatory, so willing. As she should be. A burst of light rent the sky, bathing them all in an eerie blue haze, but Ishantha had eyes only for her salvation.

_YES._

_I ACCEPT YOUR SACRIFICE._

Sylvanna bent her head in acceptance, her expression sorrowful, almost... apologetic. Ishantha had no more time to contemplate its meaning as she drew Sylvanna's energies from her, life-force flowing between them in one long, bright stream.

Something was wrong.

It wasn't just the taint she could feel, pulsing from Sylvanna. It had to be something else - something other.

_Betrayal_.

Sylvanna had been corrupted, and now her darkspawn-riddled flesh and blood was corrupting _her_. Ishantha released her, trying to break the connection, but it was too late. She could feel herself transforming, bones breaking and splitting, Voice twisting into a parody of itself as she tossed back her head, screaming her rage to all the gods above and below.

Again.

It was happening again.

.

.

.

Once more a shockwave radiated from the false god's body, but this time, Guillaume was prepared, bracing himself against the impact. From nowhere, a wind whipped up around her, obscuring his view as the vortex picked up loose sand and leaves, forming a kind of shield. Within the cloud thrashed a scaly, reptilian tail, its grotesque appearance at odds with the occasional glimpse of pale skin.

Only a warden could kill an archdemon. The elven mage had disappeared; Anders was only now climbing to his feet; Alistair had already proved his disloyalty. That left only Guillaume.

He slid forwards, then dropped to his hands and knees in the face of the gale. He continued to crawl, forcing himself to keep moving, keep pushing, though the wind roared and thundered around him. Just a little further...

The archdemon's conversion remained incomplete. He was close enough now to tell that she was fighting it, struggling against her natural form. A barbed spine would emerge, slicing through soft, unprotected skin, and a moment later it would retract, leaving only a thick trickle of blood as proof that a transformation had ever taken place. She was clearly losing the battle, however; as Guillaume watched, more and more of her body began to settle and remain in a reptilian state, her face twisting, elongating into a snout, smoke flaring from her nostrils.

With one final push forwards, Guillaume found himself at the very centre of the vortex. He grabbed a needle-like spine, pulling himself onto her bloated body. She turned to him with a face that remained half-girl, snarling to reveal a double-row of sharpened teeth. He evaded her claws, her body thrashing and writhing with the force of her transformation. Whilst she was part human, she remained vulnerable, he reminded himself as he climbed ever higher, gaining purchase using one bony protrusion at a time.

He reached her head, straddling her long neck. She continued to swipe at him, one clawed limb slicing his jerkin in half and cutting him to the bone. He barely felt the pain, hefting his dagger, his off-hand wrapped around her neck for support.

There - there. Amidst the scales and bony plate was a fringe of golden curls, hinting at soft, defenceless skin beneath. He drew back his arm, praying for his aim to be true, and his will unwavering.

.

.

.

_I ACCEPT YOUR SACRIFICE_.

"No! Ishantha, no!" Morrigan scrambled to her feet, shaking off the effects of Alistair's smite, but to no avail. Even as she ran, Sylvanna began to disappear, her body dissolving into so many specks of red dust. Inch by inch, as though it were occurring in slow motion, Sylvanna's skin, her flesh, her bones all scattered on the breeze, as though she had never lived.

For a moment, Ishantha looked pleased, but her expression swiftly changed to one of horror. When she screamed again, Morrigan thought her heart might break.

She flattened herself against the ground at the first signs of the shockwave, mind scrambling for some incantation, some device that could reverse what had been done. Failure was inconceivable, but as the vortex howled and swirled around her daughter, Morrigan could see no other alternative. A scaled head reared, jaws yawning open as it cried, the sound at once so human and so bestial, it turned Morrigan's blood to ice.

Her hair whipped into her eyes, dust scratching her skin as she began clawing closer to the edge of the whirlwind. For what, she knew not; her daughter was lost, irrevocably lost, and yet, was Morrigan's place not by her side?

She found her feet, hunched over against the force of the gale. Narrowing her eyes against the dust storm, she saw a man leap up through the eye of the vortex, a blade flashing in his hands. The sight pushed her anger past boiling point; she raised her hands, beginning an incantation that would set his blood aflame.

"Morrigan, stop!" Cold steel pressed against her skin, wresting her hands behind her back, her magic flaring and dying without effect. She fought, screaming, kicking, mouth filling with dust and the dry, bitter taste of failure. Alistair wrested her further from the edge of the maelstrom, drawing her slowly but inexorably away from her only child.

"Don't look," he urged, his arms the shackles keeping her from her blood, her burden. "Morrigan. Morrigan! Don't look."

She twisted in his grasp, spitting in his face as she wriggled and squirmed. His arms tightened, preventing her from casting, but he could not stop her from gazing upon what remained of her daughter.

A long, sinuous tail lashed from the heart of the vortex, claws scoring deep tracks into the ground. Here and there, the transformation remained incomplete; pale skin warred with dark scales, flesh rippling and reforming as each form battled for dominance. High above, the lone warden wrestled and clung to the neck of the... dragon, its sharp, jerking movements unable to dislodge him from his perch.

As Morrigan watched, the dragon's snout retracted and reformed, a snub nose and golden eyes emerging, wide and frightened as they found Morrigan through the haze of dust. A human mouth opened, forming words.

_HELP ME!_  
  
"Unhand me! Alistair, let me go!" In her efforts to free herself, Morrigan near pulled her arms from their sockets, but the man was like an intractable force of nature. Restrained, all she could do was bear witness, watching as the inevitable occurred.

The grey warden reached his goal, his blade flashing as it moved downwards in a vicious arc. Perhaps Morrigan cried out as it struck, slicing through skin and bone, destroying ten years and eternity with one fell movement.

Her daughter's dying scream sent them all flying, light filling the sky in a blaze of red and gold. She landed heavily against Alistair's side, the impact stealing her breath. For long seconds, she thought she might be spared the indignity of living.

It took several minutes for her ears to stop ringing, though pain continued to penetrate her consciousness, dizzying in its intensity. A trickle of blood slid down her face, finding the corner of her mouth, settling into the cracks of her lips.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself lying beside him, his armour protruding into her flesh. One of his arms draped around her waist, its slight pressure almost suffocating. Morrigan breathed and kept on breathing, gazing up into the reddened, dust-filled sky, too broken to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: With thanks to Condor green, interesting2125, lynn-writer, miralinda, Misdirection, mutive, My Sweet Lenore, often indecisive, roxfox1962, ScOut4It, Spikesagitta and Zero-Vision for the reviews.
> 
> Both epilogues to follow shortly. We're almost there.


	48. Postmortem

 

**The Bannorn**

Alistair finished tying his last knot, testing the cord for security.

"Weisshaupt will want an explanation," Anders said, wiping his hands on his robes. "As will the Chantry. Not to mention Denerim, Warden-Commander Osric, Arl Teagan if he's still alive..."

Alistair grimaced. "They can wait." He stepped back, observing their makeshift shroud, the body beneath neatly secured with rope. Guillaume would be cremated at a proper Chantry funeral and given all due honours as a grey warden. Technically speaking, he had killed an archdemon, and had paid the ultimate price.

Anders inclined his head. "What should we do with... that?" he asked, nodding towards the other body.

They had left the Child God where she had fallen, giving her remains a wide berth. "It's tainted. Partially, anyway. We'll have to burn it or the infection will spread." Large swathes of Ferelden still remained uninhabitable, devastated by the last Blight. The only way to contain the taint was with fire.

"And her?"

Alistair frowned. Morrigan had not moved, nor said a word since getting up and stalking away from him. For the first hour, she had merely paced as Alistair and Anders tended to their wounds, not meeting either of their gazes. Eventually she had found a seat at the base of an old elm, curled up with her knees to her chest, staring blankly at the remains of her daughter.

At some point, Anders' cat must have wormed its way into her lap, the creature now half-asleep. Occasionally, Morrigan's hand would ghost across its head, and it would wake, purring.

Anders followed Alistair's gaze and shrugged. "Cats like warm, soft places."

There was still the matter of Alistair's daughter. With a haste spell in place, they could probably reach Redcliffe by the following morning, after cremating the gigantic, half-draconic body.

And then there was Morrigan.

"Give us space," Alistair said.

Anders raised a brow. "Are you sure that's a good idea? I hate to say it, but I don't think she likes you very much."

Alistair watched Morrigan's long, slender fingers as they mechanically swept across the cat's fur. Those hands had killed dozens without physically touching a single victim. He had seen her single-handedly slaughter an entire Carta gang, rigging a series of explosions that turned people into living weapons.

"I'll be fine."

Anders shrugged, his expression dubious, but moved away. Alistair walked over to her, hovering for a moment before taking a seat. The cat opened an eye to stare at him, then went back to sleep.

Alistair looked at her face. There were no traces of tears, no clean trails cutting through the dust on her cheeks. "Morrigan," he said. She offered no hint that she had heard him. "Morrigan-"

"Leave me," she rasped. Gone was the venom in her voice, the haughty sneer; gone, too, was the spark of life in her eyes. "Leave me be."

He sighed. "You know I can't do that."

She turned to look at him for the first time. Beneath the blood and dirt, beneath the vacant stare, he thought he could see a hint of madness stirring.

"Then you are a fool, Alistair Theirin. A pathetic fool."

There was no sting to her insult. Alistair held her gaze for long moments more, with Morrigan the first to look away. "You loved her."

"What do I know of love?"

"Sylvanna would have wanted you to live."

Morrigan flinched, head turned away in grief or perhaps remorse. Her breath rose and fell, a slight tremor visible in the line of her throat. She had lived. Against all odds, despite her crimes, her lies... Morrigan still lived.

"You know what the funny thing is? I would've said 'yes', if you had bothered to ask me."

Her hand twitched, the cat quieting mid-purr. She raised her head. "You will have to be more specific, Alistair. My talents do not extend to mind reading-"

"At Redcliffe, you stupid bitch." He scowled, fingers tightening into a fist. "At the start of all - all this."

Her eyes tracked the movement of his hand before returning to his face. She pursed cracked lips. "I never meant-"

"Why didn't you just ask me?" Alistair's voice was too loud and too rough, but he no longer cared. "Maker's breath, it was my sodding body that you needed. There was no reason that you had to involve your psychotic ex-lover in the whole bloody sex ritual at all."

"'Psychotic' is hardly the word I would use-"

"That's because you weren't there! It broke her when you left us. What did you think would happen when you came back, only to say you were leaving again? How could you be so bloody stupid?"

"I couldn't risk your refusal-"

He resisted the urge to beat the ignorance from her. Nothing good could come of his anger, and yet it surged unchecked, years and years of tamped down resentment bursting forth in a bitter stream. "Did you think I wanted to die? That I wanted Sylvanna to die?" He laughed. It was either that, or resort to violence. "Any advantage, any help at all - I would have leapt for it. I would have hated myself for making that choice, and hated you for giving it to me - but I would've said 'yes'."

She stared at him. He could see her mind working through the possibilities, scenarios, the what-ifs and might-have-beens.

"Sometimes I forget that it was ever real. The Blight, the grey wardens, you, her, the ritual... as though it were only a dream. I just - why, Morrigan? Why did you do it?"

Morrigan shivered and looked away, drawing her shoulders in tight. "Does it matter?"

He breathed out. The child was dead. Guillaume was dead. Sylvanna was dead. "No. No, I suppose not. Not any more."

She said nothing. He focused on his breathing, forcing himself to relax with each exhalation. She wasn't worth it. None of this was worth it. Breathe. Breathe.

Morrigan rose to her feet, swaying as she put one foot in front of the other. Pounce leapt from her lap, winding around her ankles before wandering off in Anders' direction. She almost stumbled. Alistair held out his arm, remaining silent as she placed a hand upon his vambrace.

They approached the corpse together. It would have been kinder if the shape were no longer recognisable as human - if it had been wholly archdemon, and nothing more - but the transformation had been incomplete. An enormous limb ended in a soft, small hand, curiously alien and vulnerable amidst the dark scales.

Morrigan make a choked noise, but did not turn away. She ran forwards, haltingly at first, each movement coltish and clumsy, until she reached the head, sinking to her knees. She cradled the skull in her lap, stroking the limp, bloodied curls.

Alistair tried to look away, but found his gaze returning, searching for something - some evidence of her humanity, perhaps. Still, he felt no trace of pleasure when she began to tremble, then to shake, her shoulders heaving with each dry sob. All the same, he continued to watch, forcing himself to bear witness to her folly, and her grief.

.

.

.

Morrigan leant down, kissing her child's blood-smirched forehead. The trace of the taint tingled upon her tongue; she knew its dangers well enough, but could not bring herself to care.

Of Sylvanna, there was nothing left at all, save the lingering vestiges of red dust, caught on the breeze. Morrigan rose. He was behind her, as steady as a shadow, but she waved him away. This was her duty. Her burden.

She formed the words in her mind, each one clear and distinct, as her mother had taught her. She stretched out her arms, palms raised to the sky as though in prayer, and spoke the incantation.

For a while, nothing happened. She let her arms fall, doubt beginning to seed, but she could feel it, sense the spark she had brought to life with only the power of her knowledge and her will. It burned slowly, ever so slowly, flickering red and orange amidst the dark scales.

When the flames came closer - close enough to touch Ishantha's hair, close enough to lick and curl at Morrigan's boots - he came to her, pulling her away, one step at a time. She let him take her, a dead weight, though she mourned the warmth of the pyre with all the regret she could muster.

She breathed in smoke and breathed out remorse. Her eyes watered, fingers trembling from the effort of casting the spell.

Alistair was watching, too. There was a kind of comfort in his presence, though she knew not why. They gazed upon the fire, the heat melting what little remained of the frost on the ground. Muddy water pooled around Morrigan's boots, soaking through the thin leather.

"I can't let you live," Alistair said at last, as though mulling over the answer to a particularly difficult puzzle. "You're too dangerous. We both know that."

Morrigan would do anything to stop him from taking her alive to Denerim. How the templars would cream their smalls if he gave her to them - the once-mighty apostate, the Witch of the Wilds, Flemeth's blood-thirsty daughter. After a public execution, where children would gawk and throw stones, the Chantry would parade her severed head on a pole: _this is what we do to those who don't conform._

"You sent your pet mage away," she said, hoping that he did not detect the tremor in her voice. "That was unwise. I am not as helpless as you might think-"

"Stop, Morrigan," he said, his brows knitting together. "Just stop."

Despite her words to the contrary, she was in no condition to duel a templar of his calibre, let alone his mage friend. Burning the remains of her daughter had taken the rest of her mana. The transformed parts of the body had been considerably resistant to flame, but she did not regret her actions. No one else could have done it; the duty was hers, and hers alone.

She could still prove a difficult opponent, if she so chose. Or she could use her blood to manage a transformation - a field mouse, or some kind of bird, perhaps, small enough to elude any spells tossed her way.

But Morrigan was tired. So very tired.

"I know you can hurt me," Alistair went on. He wet his lips, momentarily the callow Chantry boy once more, and not the king. "But I don't think you will. We've come too far for that, haven't we?"

Her first instinct was to whip up some sarcastic retort to the contrary, but words failed her. She turned her head stiffly to the side, facing him. His skin was grimy, flecked with ash from the pyre, his eyes watching her own, one hand upon the hilt of his sword and the other resting by his side, deceptively still.

"Yes," she said. "We have."

They watched the pyre burning together, the flames dancing an unnatural purple and blue, almost beautiful, like the flowers Ishantha used to pick around their cottage. _Heliotrope_, she would say, her tongue dancing with joy over the word, _heli-heli-heli-oh_...

It was impossible in that moment to ignore the fact that she had been his daughter too. His flesh and blood, unwilling as he might have been.

Morrigan felt the sting of moisture forming in her eyes, and she breathed in sharply, her nose filling with the rank odour of burning flesh. She heard a quiet, metallic sound, and felt Alistair shifting beside her.

She raised her chin, pressing her lips together to stop them from trembling. He stood before her, eyes solemn, the gravity of years hanging from his broad shoulders. Her body tensed in anticipation.

"Don't look," he murmured, and this time she obeyed, staring up straight into his eyes, counting the lines at each corner, the grains of soot on his cheeks. She watched him, unblinking, even when something flickered at the edge of her vision, every nerve in her body screaming at her to run.

The sword entered her chest with very little ceremony, an inch below where Sylvanna had stabbed her. It was not painless, but the feeling was right - proper - and it did not hurt half as much as the first time.

"I am sorry," Morrigan said, the words barely a whisper.

Alistair's body was warm against hers, his hand wrapped tight around the hilt pressed between them. She shuddered, and felt his breath upon her forehead, her skin burning when he pulled away.

"I forgive you."

She exhaled when he withdrew, automatically gulping for air. They were both ruining their clothes with blood, she thought in vain; _blood was so very hard to clean _and _'twould be careless to spoil another dress by dying_. He caught her when she fell, all solid strength and hard planes, his arms holding her so she could see the sky.

.

.

.

Alistair dug a grave for her, in the end; fire seemed too Andrastian for a woman who had never seen the value of faith. He scraped together what remained of the red dust where Sylvanna had fallen, and scattered it over her body in the pit, before turning the dirt over her beautiful, cold face.

When it was done, he stepped back, observing his work. From the mound, a tiny green sprout emerged, bearing two small leaves before his very eyes.

_Old God magic._

There was very little to say that had not already been said, but the silence felt so empty that he cleared his throat, his hands clasped before him. "I hope you find peace. Both of you."

Then he turned and walked away without once looking back, his shoulders straight and his head held high, the weight sliding from him as though he were waking from a nightmare.


	49. Epilogue

In Redcliffe, Arl Teagan and his family were found alive and relatively unharmed. Eleanor Sylvia Theirin was overjoyed to be reunited with her father, though for months later she complained of nightmarish dreams, filled with the sound of beating wings.

Lord Hernays was executed in Denerim on the fifth day of Guardian, 9:42 Dragon, on charges of kidnapping and treason. Several more executions were quietly conducted in Redcliffe, by order of the restored arl.

Roslyn Guerrin was never quite the same. She grew into an obstinate child, fonder of swordplay and tourneys than of the gentle arts better suited to her sex. Her parents despaired of ever finding a man willing to marry her.

Anders travelled to Denerim, attending court as the King's Healer. Relations between the Crown and Chantry worsened when King Alistair restricted templar access to his new mage, and several years later, Anders disappeared amid suspicious circumstances. He left behind a score of dead templars, all covered with scratch marks, as though they had been savaged by a small animal.

Liselle Falaize was delivered of a son in the month of Drakonis. After much consternation, the child was formally recognised by Bann Ceorlic, and named heir to the Southern Bannorn.

A madman was observed wandering near the foothills of Soldier's Peak, babbling about demons and creatures from beyond the Veil. A formal investigation by the Grey Wardens found the keep abandoned, inhabited only by the skeletal remains of the Dryden family. Avernus' body was never discovered, though several of his treatises on darkspawn physiology and behaviour were transferred to the library at Vigil's Keep. Once again, Soldier's Peak fell into ruin, inhabited only by ghosts and legends.

Connor Guerrin returned to the Loyalist Circle, although he was never able to cast another spell. For a time, the Chantry trialled dismemberment as an alternative to Tranquilisation. The trial ended when one mage, despite the loss of both his hands, slaughtered a room of templars and Loyalists before being put down.

Divine Amalthea IV posthumously honoured Guillaume Falaize during a public ceremony in Val Royeaux. In Weisshaupt, official records were changed to list Guillaume as the grey warden who killed the Archdemon Urthemiel, thereby ending the Fifth Blight. Guillaume was also credited with the death of Morrigan, mother to Urthemiel and daughter of Flemeth, the Witch of the Wilds.

Of Sylvanna, few records existed beyond her actions during the Blight of 9:30-31 Dragon. In time, legend had it that she died atop the tower of Fort Drakon, consumed in a blaze of light as Denerim's sky filled with ash.

.

.

.

Morrigan brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her skirt, resisting the urge to shiver. It was not cold, truly, just... grey. The sky, the ground, the shifting vista were all a uniform shade of grey, broken only by the spires of the Black City, floating in the distance.

She kicked a pebble with the toe of her boot. Dust scattered, the clatter of the stone keeping her company for a few brief seconds.

When she glanced up, she was no longer alone. Morrigan blinked. A simulacrum would look just as real; there was no excuse for the tightening sensation in her chest, nor the hitch in her throat, particularly as she had no use for either blood or breath.

The newcomer stood silently, a navy cloak hanging in folds about her shoulders, the hint of colour as striking as blood in water. Wisps of hair escaped her hood, the top half of her face shadowed, leaving visible only her lips and chin, and the edge of her scar.

Morrigan took a step forwards, then stopped. "You," she said, flinching at the sound of her own voice. "You... waited."

Sylvanna raised her head. The hood fell back, revealing her face; the same face that had laughed at Morrigan, ordering her to South Reach; the same mouth that had kissed and reprimanded her with nary a beat between the two. Perhaps not the same. Like everything else, the colour had leached from her, sparing only her eyes.

"You'll note that time is relative, here."

"You lied to me." Morrigan clung to her anger, struggling to remember the feeling of betrayal, the sting of failure. "You tricked me."

Sylvanna spread her hands wide, palms upturned. "I said there was a way to save our daughter. I fail to see the lie."

"You orchestrated her demise!"

"Was there any other way? How else to remove the god from the girl?"

"I observed her transformation," Morrigan said, not quite able to keep the quaver from her voice. "I saw the consequences of your deceit. Your grey warden ally plunged a dagger through her skull! Have you no regard, no comprehension of the torments she must have endured?"

Sylvanna lowered her eyes. "I regret her pain most of all, whether you would believe me or not. But perhaps you ought to speak to her yourself."

Morrigan sneered, not even trying to conceal her contempt. "Indeed. Perhaps I ought to saunter to the gates of the Black City and seek audience with her soul. No creature, deity or darkspawn, could ever refuse a mother-"

"I was being serious, Morrigan."

A breeze stirred through the Fade, the landscape rippling like silk and reforming beneath them. Far away, a speck of light bloomed within a quadrant of the Black City, illuminating a twisted network of towers before dying once more.

"About the meeting? Or about dividing her essence-"

Morrigan stopped abruptly. With unbearable slowness, a girl edged out from behind Sylvanna's skirts, using the warden as though she were a shield. Morrigan bit the inside of her lip. The girl looked nothing like her daughter; her face was too broad, her hair wispy and thin. They might have been the same height, perhaps, but that was all. This child looked so much younger.

"Both."

Sylvanna gave the girl a gentle push, and she stumbled forwards with tottering steps, as if she had only just learnt how to walk. Morrigan extended her hand, unable to prevent herself from staring. Her eyes... her eyes were the same shade of gold, flecked with green, but within Morrigan could see only her reflection. No shadows, no hint of power, no half-glimpsed promise of eternity lurking at the edges. Guileless, Morrigan might have said, had it been another's child.

The girl took her hand, tentative, hesitant, before throwing herself into a hug that Morrigan had no will to escape. She felt only the slightest pressure, a hint of textures: the coarse wool of the girl's clothing, the softness of her forehead against Morrigan's lips. At the back of her skull, Morrigan found a raised line of scar tissue, near-invisible beneath her hair.

"Does it pain you?" Morrigan asked, pulling back, her heart in her throat.

The girl opened her mouth, paused, then managed a smile. "Not any more."

Morrigan cupped her face between her hands. "How brave you are," she whispered. She devoured every detail as though trying to commit them to memory, the arc of each curve, the precise relationship between distances and angles. If she concentrated to the utmost of her ability, she could almost blot out the face of the other creature she had seen: the half-dragon, half-girl. Perhaps she might have cried, had any tears remained.

The child squirmed, wriggling from her grasp. "Mother, please! I'm not a baby!"

"She's right," Sylvanna said. "It's time."

Morrigan straightened and exhaled out of habit. Behind them, darkness encroached upon their path, cutting off the route she must have taken. As she watched, the shadows lengthened, swallowing up the ground inch by inch.

"Sylvanna," Morrigan began, then stuttered to a halt when Sylvanna glanced at her, expression guarded, betraying nothing and asking nothing in return. Morrigan swallowed. "Come with us, if you so desire."

Sylvanna raised a brow. "With you?"

Morrigan grimaced. She would not beg. She would not beg, not even for her.

It was the child who nodded, the gesture barely perceptible. Sylvanna's gaze lowered, and betwixt them passed some kind of secret, unspoken knowledge.

"If you're certain," Sylvanna said.

It took Morrigan a moment to realise Sylvanna was speaking to her. She could still decline, she realised. It would take but a word, and they could be on their way, Morrigan and her daughter alone.

"I am certain."

An indescribable expression flitted across Sylvanna's face like a ripple over still water, gently smoothed to bland, unassuming grey in an instant.

"You may kiss," the child said, her tone solemn as though she were presiding over a Chantry wedding.

Sylvanna glanced aside and might have blushed, had she blood in her veins. Morrigan grabbed her before she could turn away, willing herself to feel the press of skin beneath her fingertips, the memory of texture upon her lips and tongue. And she could - _yes_ \- there was still magic here, in this part of the Fade. She extended her power to feel the warmth of Sylvanna's breath and the weight of her arms, drawing upon their shared memories to construct an echo of what might have been.

Sylvanna leant her forehead against Morrigan's shoulder. "We should leave," she murmured. 

Morrigan glanced up. The shadows continued to creep forwards, reclaiming their territory. "And just where, might I ask, are we going?"

A gust of wind blew through the Fade, brushing over Morrigan's skin like the scent of rain; like a song, long-forgotten upon waking. Sylvanna's lips curved into a sweet, secretive smile, but it was the child who answered, extending her hands to both of them, her words warm with certainty.

"Wherever we choose."

.

.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: OMG, IT'S OVER.
> 
> It's been a crazy, fun, frustrating journey, going straight from never having written more than 6K words in a story, never writing anything more than a T-rating, right into _A Curious Thing_ and then this multi-chaptered monstrosity.
> 
> I have to thank my wife juri for putting up with my obsession, giving me hysterical crackfic ideas and being the first to tell me whenever something sounds completely stupid, oneplusme for joining my fandom and betaing the entirety of _Beauty Ascending_, teaching me to use the subjunctive and expanding my vocabulary amongst many, many other things, and sqbr for the early encouragement and plot advice.
> 
> Thank you Noah Sila, mutive, wayfaringpanda and interesting2125 for the extended discussions. I love talking about writing more than I love writing. Best of luck for all your WIPs!
> 
> Thank you so much all you wonderful people for your loyalty, advice and encouragement over the last year(!) and a half. I can certifiably say that this would have been a lesser story without your input and support.
> 
> Thank you: Asher77, AssassinsLover, Auroraas, Avarenda, AvengerMouse, Bad Girl762, BleachAddict24-7, Condor green, Dinlek, Eden, Elizabeth Carter, gamesgunsgirls, Gemini1179, hetekos, IamWithinTemptation, interesting2125, Inverness, J. E. Talveran, juri, KyaniteD, Lightning Strikes Twice, Liisa Vatanen, Lvl2DragonTamer, lynn-writer, Metroidvania, miralinda, Misdirection, Mm-Burnt-Toast-mM, Morgaine Dax, mutive, My Sweet Lenore, Nightwish11606, Noah Sila, often indecisive, Ondjage, oneplusme, PhoenixFawkes210, RandyNanna, roxfox1962, ScOut4It, Snafu1000, Spikesagitta, sqbr, Tadwin, Technyx, thatgirlwiththe, Tolk600, Victorita9, Wagontrain, wayfaringpanda, XoOMGiTSpiNsox and Zero-Vision!


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